


The Sorcerer's Stone

by Kanene_Rose



Series: It Does Not Do to Dwell on Dreams [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Allusions to Possible Eating Disorder, Eventual relationship, F/F, Hermione has a not-so-subtle girl crush, Please Don't Hate Me, Self-Esteem Issues, it's my first fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-08
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2018-10-16 05:17:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 78,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10564404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kanene_Rose/pseuds/Kanene_Rose
Summary: All that was left of the family was a beautiful, silent baby girl and a curious note signed “Toujours Pur.”Harry James Potter, the Boy Who Lived, was not the only wizard orphaned that fateful night at Godric’s Hollow. But while Harry is hidden away from the wizarding world, under the cautious eye of Albus Dumbledore, one young witch is utterly forgotten. How will Phoenix—without the fame, or the gold, or the lightning scar—fare in a world in which her blood is both a blessing and a curse, and in which her only claim is the immense power she never realized she possessed?A chapter-by-chapter retelling of the Harry Potter series, by J.K. Rowling. I do not own Harry Potter, or any of the characters therein. Each chapter will be named after the one parallel to it in the original book.





	1. The Boy Who Lived

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are always appreciated! Hope you like it!

“The Muggles will have noticed,” Mrs. Skimple scoffed, watching a flock of witches and wizards in multi-colored cloaks file excitedly into the Leaky Cauldron, a small, shabby-looking pub. “You-Know-Who’s been gone less than a day. You’d think people’d have the common sense to—”

But Mr. Skimple wasn’t listening. He relaxed further into his armchair and turned the paper, for the third time, back to the front page. He watched a moment as the several disheveled figures in the black-and-white photograph talked happily to one another and raised their hands suddenly, giving an inaudible cheer, before he began to reread the main article.

“Are you listening to me, Castor?” his wife asked, her voice falsely light. 

Mr. Skimple gave a quick nod.

“No, you’re  _ not _ ,” she said, crossing the room and ripping the newspaper from his doughy hands. “You’ve read this edition of the  _ Daily Prophet _ no less than five times today!”

“Come, now, Aurelia,” he laughed, the black of his iris glinting in the stunted lamplight that filtered through the drapes. “How can you worry at a time like this? You should be celebrating!”

“I have to worry!” she nearly shouted. “And you should worry, too. What with careless gits like Dedalus Diggle—all those shooting stars—and the owls! Muggles have noticed the owls, Castor, it’s even been in their news! Calpurnia came to visit me today and said that the rumours have been growing. I can’t imagine what they’ll do next.”

“Well,” Mr. Skimple teased, pulling himself forward in his chair and squaring his shoulders. “I suppose there’ll be a parade tomorrow. Thousands of wizards headed to Godric’s Hollow, or wherever that little tyke is, all on broomsticks—”

“Broomsticks!” 

“Calm down, Aurelia.” He muttered as he slumped back into his seat. It seemed, momentarily, as if he were considering the  _ Daily Prophet _ again, but one reproachful glare from his wife warned him otherwise. Instead, he placed the paper on the coffee table and scratched his balding, blond head. “I was only joking. Fudge’ll have it under control by morning, and if he doesn’t, then Dumbledore will surely—”

“But Dumbledore has other, more pressing matters tonight, doesn’t he?” 

Where Mr. Skimple was plump and soft, his wife was tall, bony, and rather intimidating; her narrow eyes, thin, angled eyebrows, and pointed nose gave her the impression of an angry hawk. But at this moment, she shriveled. Her pale face blanched to sickening transparency and the faintest traces of green began painting her cheeks like morbid blush. 

Mr. Skimple opened his mouth, then closed it; he did this several times until, finally, he seemed to remember how to speak. 

“Dumbledore said he’s paying a little visit, that’s all,” he reassured his wife. His voice wavered. “Decided to stop by, talk to some old students.”

“Since when has he ever paid  _ us _ a visit, Castor?”

 

Silence reigned for nearly an hour until, around ten o’clock, the Skimples were aroused from their bed—where they both lay, stiff, staring blankly at the opposite wall—by a loud cracking noise, like that of a gunshot, somewhere on the floor below. The two hurried down the stairs, fully dressed, and were not surprised to see Albus Dumbledore, their old school headmaster, standing in a long, purple cloak and high-heeled, buckled boots. He was staring out the glass of the front door, in which the Skimples could see no more than the silvery-white reflection of his waist-length beard, watching a few loud and inconsiderate wizards screaming things like “That’a boy, Harry!” and “Defeated by a toddler! What a twist!” up and down Charing Cross Road. 

At the Skimples’ approach, his spirits seemed to brighten. 

“Ah!” he said, smiling, his blue eyes dazzling as he peered over his half-moon spectacles. “Aurelia and Castor! How have you been?”

Mrs. Skimple hurried him further inside while her husband muttered something about a sale that day at Fortescque’s ice cream parlor. 

“In light of the recent news,” Dumbledore buzzed, turning now to face Mrs. Skimple. “I’m not surprised. No, I won’t sit just now, Aurelia. First, to business. I have a favor to ask of you.”

Mrs. Skimple gave a twitchy sort of nod that Mr. Skimple could not intepret, but Dumbledore seemed to take it as reassurance and continued. 

“I’ve come across an infant in the last few hours,” he explained, his magnificent blue eyes never leaving Mrs. Skimple’s. 

“Not the Potter boy?” Mr. Skimple asked aghast. He leaned forward in his favorite violet armchair, determined to gather his headmaster’s attention. 

“No,” Dumbledore laughed. “No, I could not burden you with  _ that _ , I’m afraid. His fame—”

“Then who?”

“A young girl from Godric’s Hollow. We’ve no name for her, as of yet.” The headmaster absentmindedly smoothed a stray silver hair and fixed his spectacles. His voice had fallen, somehow, the subtle rasp and forced content now a hoarse, morose whisper. “There’s no known record of her, and her parents were found dead—”

“Death Eaters,” Mrs. Skimple interjected, not wanting to hear the rest. 

Dumbledore simply nodded, patiently, and waited. Another crack sounded from the front hall and a second, surlier wizard in a black cloak swept into the room, carrying in one arm what looked to be a very small bundle of robes. He was short, square, with a balding head of ginger hair, a squashed, scarred face, and a clawed, wooden leg that scratched the floorboards as he hobbled into view.

“Dumbledore,” he said. His voice was gruff. He shuffled the package into Dumbledore’s arms and pulled a hip flask from underneath his cloak. 

“Ah, thank you, Mad-Eye.”

The man nodded, first at Dumbledore, then to the Skimples, and disappeared with a second  _ crack _ into thin air. 

“Mad-Eye, the Auror?” Mr. Skimple whispered loudly, perching dangerously on the edge of his armchair. He looked, to his wife, like one of the silly girls back at Hogwarts, searching for the juiciest gossip. She considered reminding him of the severity of this situation, but found herself pulled from her thoughts by Dumbledore’s calming rasp.

“The same.” There was no hint of a smile. No characteristic, childish glint in his eye. Mrs. Skimple could only remember one instance in which the headmaster had seemed so grim, and she didn’t like to consider  _ those _ circumstances, all those years ago when You-Know-Who was still called by the name of his father, Tom Riddle. 

“Does she need protection, Dumbledore?”

The man sighed. Again, he ignored Mr. Skimple’s stuttering and instead adressed his wife, who was listening with such rapt attention she hadn’t noticed she’d been slowly tearing at a wrinkled page in the  _ Daily Prophet _ . A few dazed wizards silently screamed and ducked for cover as a rip came dangerously close to the edge of their picture. 

“I’m afraid she may,” he said, reaching into his purple cloak. For a moment, Mrs. Skimple thought he’d written her another letter; the envelope he’d just pulled out of his robes was made of thick, yellow parchment, similar to that of the Hogwarts School’s official letters, and was adressed in emerald-black ink. “I found this earlier. Whoever disposed of her parents left this along the carnage.”

He held out the envelope with one sturdy, bony hand, but Mrs. Skimple was reluctant to take it. Upon the front, in a steady hand, was clearly written “ _ Toujours Pur _ .”

“Did the Black family have anything to do with her parents’ deaths?” Mrs. Skimple asked, horrorstruck. Her jaw seemed unwilling to move, but she bit down—accidentally nicking the sides of her tongue—and continued. “The Blacks were in league with You-Know-Who, weren’t they?”

Again, Dumbledore nodded. 

“I need,” he paused, considering his words, “I need you to care for this girl...at least for the time being. I’ve the quaintest notion that whoever attacked her parents may come to regret leaving her behind. But know that I would not ask you to do this if I thought it would put you, or your family, in danger.”

Mr. Skimple found the answer unsatisfactory, but his wife, who was rather used to the headmaster’s open-ended responses, was wont to the sort of wariness she felt, this moment, in the pit of her stomach. No matter how hard she prodded, she knew that Dumbledore would find some way of dodging the question, or, at least, some way to raise more questions in giving his explanation. She accepted the bundle, which stirred as the baby changed hands, and bid the man good-night. With a final crack, Dumbledore had disappeared and Mrs. Skimple, disbelieving, stared down into the face of her third child. 


	2. The Vanishing Glass

Mr. and Mrs. Skimple did not approve of half-breeds, and it was this disapproval that drove their youngest daughter, Asteria Nyx, to pursue an education in Magical Creatures. Of course, being underage, and, indeed, below the required age to attend any wizarding school, she had resorted to studying from her sister’s secondhand textbooks.

“Girl,” said Mr. Skimple, glaring from her bedroom doorway as she sat cross-legged in the middle of her bed. “You’ve this last summer before school starts. You may as well enjoy this last bit of freedom.”

But she knew this was just a bid; if they could, the Skimples would have redirected her education alltogether. They hated the attention she paid to her siblings’ lessons, the fervor with which she read the documentation and theories behind different sorts of magic, and the ease with which she seemed to _understand_ it all, as if she were a seventh-year student like their darling Marinia; they loathed above all, however, the acceptance she received from her older siblings.

“Phoenix!” Marinia laughed one night at the dinner table. “I’ll call you Phoenix.”

Mr. Skimple looked to his wife, whose face had turned scarlet.

Their oldest daughter seemed not to notice. She was egged on further by her brother, Jasper, who’d turned red from laughter and nearly fallen sideways off his chair.

“You won’t,” Mrs. Skimple warned. “Her name is Asteria. _I_ named her myself.”

“But it’s such a brilliant nickname, isn’t it, for someone so persistent,” Jasper argued, jabbing at his dry steak with a fork. “Think she’s done and— _poof_ —a few minutes later, she ressurects the topic.”

“I thought we were rather done discussing those creatures,” Mr. Skimple said, shooting a warning look to Marinia, who’d just attempted to refill her glass with a flick of her wand, but, instead, had sent a large, piercing crack through the center of the glass pitcher.

“Er—sorry, Dad.”

“No problem,” he smiled.

Mrs. Skimple drew her own wand from her pocket and repaired the pitcher, carefully mopping up the spilt pumpkin juice with a second hurried flick.

“There we are,” she said, looking around the short, rectangular table. Directly across from Mrs. Skimple, her husband had become distracted, yet again, by a moving advertisement in the _Daily Prophet_ , completely unaware that their son had snuck his wand beneath his napkin. “No underage magic, Jasper. We don’t want _another_ owl from the Ministry, do we?”

Jasper’s face turned a deep shade of red as he placed the wand in plain view, far from his dinner plate, and pulled his blond bangs down lower to hide his forehead. Asteria saw his lips give a faint lurch, and she wondered whether he’d meant to utter an audible apology.

Mr. Skimple engaged his wife and son in a heated debate about the most recent Quidditch game against Scotland and Asteria seized her chance. She leaned in closer to Marinia, who sat directly to her right, and whispered, “May I borrow your textbook for Potions?”

“I gave it to you last week,” she mumbled into her napkin, careful not to acquire her mother’s unwanted attention. “Wait, you haven’t finished it, have you? That book’s for second years.”

“Yeah, and I need the third.”

“We’ll talk later,” said Marinia, and she chugged the last of her pumpkin juice before excusing herself.

 

Charing Cross Road was a Muggle street; the Skimples never let their children forget this fact, as Jasper had a tendency to talk about Quidditch (a sport involving seven players on broomsticks and fifty-foot high goal posts) very loudly in front of their neighbors and Muggle bookshop owners, and Asteria seemed unable at times to control her sudden bouts of silly, childish magic. Once, in the shop below the Skimple’s apartment, nine-year-old Asteria had tripped down the stairs, only to find that the landing below was suddenly covered in a layer of thick, fluffy pillows.

Mr. and Mrs. Skimple, of course, had hurried their children along. It’d taken nearly five  minutes for the Muggles, who’d heard the girl bump into several of the stairs on her way down, to file out of the hall; only then could Mrs. Skimple magically remove all of the evidence of her adopted daughters’ abilities. Though Marinia and Jasper had had similar instances before attending Hogwarts, and neither had ever been punished, Asteria had the feeling that Mrs. Skimple wanted nothing more than to send her to her room without supper...for several days.

“They probably wished I’d be a Squib,” she muttered, grabbing a book out from underneath her pillow.

“Not this again.” Marinia closed the door behind her. She was already in her yellow-and-black Hufflepuff-theme pajamas and carrying a tall stack of secondhand Hogwarts textbooks, all of which she’d finished using years prior. “Mum and Dad want you to excel. They just think you’re going a bit _too_ fast.”

Unlike Jasper—who had Mr. Skimple’s chubby cheeks, blond hair, and baby blue eyes—Marinia shared her mother’s thin frame. They had the same striking, green eyes and straight black hair, which Marinia usually chose to keep pulled back into a tight ponytail.

Asteria looked like neither of her parents. With long, brown hair and dark brown eyes, pale skin, and slight curves (even at her age), she stood apart from all the Skimples, including her grandparents on both sides and her three uncles. She knew, without being told, that she was adopted, though Marinia and Jasper would both try to dissuade her. It was no use.

“Alright, if they really want me to succeed,” she said, sitting up and opening _Hairy Snout, Human Heart_ to the bookmarked page, “then why did _you_ whisper at dinnertime? Why not let Mum hear what we were talking about?”

Marinia didn’t answer. Instead, she dumped the whole stack on the edge of the bed and began flipping through to random pages.

“Some of these have notes in them,” she said, pointing at what looked, to Asteria, like a great mass of random curlicued characters. “But those are the ones Snape’ll most likely test you on. I only put so much effort into Potions class, so anything I paid attention to is probably important.”

“Good to know,” Asteria laughed.

Marinia picked up _The Standard Book of Spells, (Grade 3)_ , by Miranda Goshawk, and tossed it at her younger sister, who had just enough time to deflect it with a wave of her hand. The book took a sudden, manic turn to the right, slowed, hovered just above the mattress, and closed itself before landing carefully on the bed.

“Powerful stuff, that.” Her face was suddenly serious, as Asteria had never seen it; her lips were pressed into a very thin, straight line and her cheeks blanched.

“The book?” Asteria asked. “It’s only Grade 3. Can’t imagine it’s any more powerful than—”

“No,” Marinia interjected. She moved to sit beside Asteria and leaned in close. “Your magic, Phoenix. Haven’t you noticed by now?”

“Noticed what?”

“Stuff like _that_ . You make stuff move, or you make stuff appear, and you _always_ seem to know exactly what it is you’re trying to do.”

“ _Every_ witch does accidental magic when they’re young, Marinia, it’s not that—”

“Accidental. _Accidental_ magic, Phoenix,” she said, straightening her back. Her piercing green eyes never left Asteria’s. “Don’t tell me you haven’t tried out some real spells. And _succeeded_.”

Both girls paused a moment; someone was standing directly outside so close, they thought, they may as well have been pressing their ear to the door. But, in the silence, the eavesdropper realized their mistake, took a step back, and asked in a wavering, masculine voice, “You girls alright in there? It’s almost time for bed.”

“Yeah,” said Marinia, not caring to open the door. “I’ll go in a minute, Dad.”

They waited as Mr. Skimple’s footsteps faded.

“Not every underage witch has so much control over their magic,” Marinia continued. “I’ll bet anything _that’s_ why Mum and Dad always seem worried.”

“Because I’m good at what?” Asteria turned red; she was angry, and a little more than slightly terrified, at the prospect of being discouraged for the sake of keeping her _average_. So what if she was good at something for a change? But that wasn’t the point, she reminded herself. “Making pillows appear out of thin air isn’t exactly talent.”

“How about when you rearranged the entire living room last month? Fixed the broken chandelier and everything.”

“That was an accident!”

Marinia stood, grabbed the doorknob, but had not made her mind as whether to leave yet or not. “Phoenix, how many trained wizards can say they’ve done magic of that scale? Not many in my year.”

As Marinia was in her seventh and final year at Hogwarts, the news that her own power was bested by her eleven-year-old sister came as a shock to Asteria, who’d previously been told (by Mr. and Mrs. Skimple) that her ‘growth spurts,’ as they called them, were nothing compared to what other children were doing at her age. Perhaps, she thought, she _could_ excel at Hogwarts if given the chance, but before now it had seemed unlikely that she’d be accepted to such a prestigous school.

“What are they afraid of?” Her voice faltered and cracked. Phoenix instantly regretted her wording, if not the question entirely.

But Marinia only shrugged and left, bidding Phoenix good-night as she shut the door behind her.

 

By the end of the following week, Phoenix—as Marinia and Jasper now called her—had finished both _The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 3)_ and _The Essential Defence Against the Dark Arts_ , by Arsenius Jigger, and had started _Hogwarts: A History_. This meant that, to some degree, she could recognize the material for the first three years of both Defense Against the Dark Arts and Charms Class at Hogwarts.

If she was even invited to attend, that is.

Phoenix still wasn’t sure whether or not she’d be allowed to study magic alongside her fellow witches and wizards; there was something in the way her parents acted towards her—how they discussed her, and her education, in hushed tones when they thought no one was listening, or how they hastily changed subjects whenever someone brought the topic up—that alerted her to the severity of her case. Why she was different from the rest, Phoenix didn’t know, but she was certain there was something odd involving her circumstance, be it her unknown lineage or her own magical abilities, that was bound to worry more than just her adopted parents; if _they_ knew something was amiss, then surely Dumbledore did, too.

Dumbledore, headmaster of Hogwarts, wouldn’t let anything dangerous near the castle grounds. So if Phoenix really was a threat, she concluded, he _definitely_ would not accept her as a student.

Phoenix thought this through, _Hogwarts: A History_ open on her lap, when the door to her bedroom flew open and her brother ran in, panting, with a letter in his hands.

“For you!” he yelled, gripping his knees.

Phoenix was ecstatic—she’d never received a letter in her life. Or, at least, not one that was addressed specifically to _her_ and not ‘the parents of Asteria Skimple’—and she silently cheered that her parents had escorted Marinia to Diagon Alley to catch up with a few school friends. She ripped the paper out of Jasper’s hands and closed the door.

The envelope was made of a thick, yellowy parchment, addressed in emerald ink:

 

_Miss Asteria “Phoenix” B. Skimple_

_9 Charing Cross Road_

_London_

 

She quickly tore open the envelope and found that the letter inside was written on the same, yellow parchment.

 

_Miss Skimple,_

 

_I do hope you can join me for tea sometime this week. It would be rather lovely to see you before the start of term come September. Whatever time or day you have available will do._

 

_I await your owl,_

_Professor Albus Dumbledore_

_Headmaster, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

 

Phoenix read it through thoroughly three times, then folded the letter and placed it neatly back into its envelope.

“Well?” asked Jasper, who’d finally gotten his breath. “What’s it say?”

“Dumbledore wants to meet with me this week.” She tried to dismiss the excitement rising in her chest, but found, catching sight of herself in the vanity mirror, that her cheeks had turned a vibrant shade of scarlet.

“What for?”

“It doesn’t say,” she muttered, rather taken aback by this realization. Why _didn’t_ he say? Was this common, to meet with students before their first year? She wouldn’t ask Jasper, of course, because not knowing seemed to lessen the sudden knot she felt developing in her stomach.

Instead, she pointed out the only strange thing she was willing to discuss.

“He knew I was called ‘Phoenix,’” she said, pointing to the emerald script. “But he got the middle initial wrong. My middle name’s Nyx, but he put a B.”

“Maybe it’s your birth name.” It was the first time anyone but Phoenix had implied she was adopted, and the resulting silence weighed heavily in the room. “I mean—of course you’re not—”

“No.” She shook her head and subtly ushered him toward the door. “It’s alright. I have to write Professor Dumbledore, but I’ll be down shortly.”

Phoenix did not mention the letter to her parents, nor would she disclose the exact contents of her reply, but Jasper noted that, around midnight, as he slunk curiously from his bed, the family tawny owl Avery was not on his perch. He did not return, in fact, until very early the next morning, when Mr. and Mrs. Skimple were still in bed, clutching a yellowy envelope in his beak addressed, once again, to _Miss Asteria “Phoenix” B. Skimple._

 


	3. The Letters from No One

Professor Dumbledore’s response had been agonizingly short, and Phoenix found herself reading the letter over and over again until the words were near-permanently etched into her brain.

 

_Dear Miss Skimple,_

 

_July 30 at 9 o’clock. Until then._

 

_Yours sincerely,_

_Professor Albus Dumbledore_

_Headmaster, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

 

His title, she noted, was nearly twice as long as his letter. But she’d already supplied him with the location, and the possible times and dates for the appointment; he only really needed to confirm when he’d be at the Skimple apartment, Phoenix rationalized, but that did nothing to ease her anxiety.

At quarter passed eight, Phoenix began to panic. She’d kept their correspondence a secret from her family (all but Jasper, of course) and she was beginning to regret doing so; her parents could have been useful, preparing her for the meeting with words of encouragement. But now, all alone, pacing the upstairs hall of an empty, cramped apartment, she felt as if the last thing she wanted was to have tea with one of the greatest wizards in history. Her image of Professor Dumbledore was one of a sage, powerful man that flittered about the Hogwarts castle dispensing wisdom to passing students. As the appointment drew nearer, it occurred to Phoenix that this man (or image therof) certainly had no place in a domestic setting.

Imagining Dumbledore— _the_ Albus Dumbledore—sitting at her kitchen table, sipping from an old coffee mug, was the epitome of the Muggle idiom ‘fish out of water.’

Time began to pass unnaturally fast and Phoenix had barely recognized that nearly an hour had gone by when someone called from the landing downstairs.

“Hello,” said an old, rasped voice. “I do hope I’m not early.”

By the time Phoenix had made her way downstairs, Dumbledore had found a seat in the living room.

“Ah, Miss Skimple,” he sounded absolutely delighted. “How nice to see you.”

His face broke out in a boyish grin that Phoenix could not help but return. He stood, shook her hand, and gestured for them both to take a seat.

“Tea?” Dumbledore asked. Phoenix hadn’t finished muttering her response when the older wizard pulled out his wand and pointed it toward the kitchen. A serving tray, two tea cups, bowls of sugar and cream, and a large, hissing kettle floated through the open door and landed neatly on the coffee table before them. The kettle filled both cups nearly to the brim before returning to the kitchen. “Sugar?”

“One, please,” Phoenix said, astounded.

Though they would never admit it, Mr. and Mrs. Skimple were not the greatest wizards. While Mr. Skimple proved to be rather good at potion-making, which was (sometimes) useful, neither he nor his wife were very efficient when it came to domestic magic. Fixing a broken pitcher was one thing, but making several small breakables soar through the air with _control_ was another thing entirely.

“Thank you,” she said, smiling, as the cup levitated from its tray and rose to meet her waiting hands. “How have you been, Professor?”

“My summer has been rather good, I think.” He turned suddenly toward Phoenix, bringing his tea carefully to his lap. “But I do think you meant to inquire as to the occassion?”

Phoenix blanched. Was she _that_ transparent? She’d tried to look calm…

“Yes,” she mumbled, unable to look him in the eyes.

He smiled and brought his cup up to his lips, but did not take a sip. Instead, he let go and watched the delicate porcelain settle onto the serving tray once more.

“I was speaking with your brother at the end of last term,” he said, turning suddenly to Phoenix. His happy smile was back, but Phoenix felt a knot begin to form in the pit of her stomach and did not smile in return. “I wanted to discuss his N.E.W.T. prospects. You see, he had turned down the opportunity to continue on to N.E.W.T-level Defense Against the Dark Arts despite receiving an O, or _Outstanding_ —the highest possible score—in his Ordinary Wizarding Level examination. I’d been keen on changing his mind when something very strange happened.”

Phoenix wished she knew a spell to make herself invisible. Dumbledore was watching her expectantly, and now she knew why he was here. She was going to get in trouble for helping her brother through his O.W.L.s. Phoenix opened her mouth to apologize, but Dumbledore raised his hand and continued.

“I’ve had a number of students confess they’d been helped by a younger sibling. But never, in all my time at Hogwarts…” His voice drifted off, perhaps leaving room for Phoenix to complete his thought. The delighted grin had disappeared, but his eyes maintained a certain shine. He didn’t seem angry or disappointed in the young witch. On the contrary, the nasty feeling in Phoenix’s stomach had subsided and she found herself relaxing into her armchair. “How _did_ you do it? You can’t have been more than ten years old, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Are you ever mistaken?” she quipped, earning a small tug at the corner of his lips.

“I should be reprimanding you. Or, at least giving you a warning,” he smiled, picking up his tea cup. “But I think that may be counterproductive.”

“How so?” To her own surprise, Phoenix had finished her tea. But as she leaned forward to place the cup back on its tray, she found the thing had refilled itself. A lump of sugar came zooming enthusiastically from the sugar bowl and landed in the boiling water with a subtle _splash_.

“Well, I find that I—as well as you—could use this as an opportunity.” He threw his head back, wiped his lips with the back of his wrist, and dodged a second and third lump of sugar as they went slightly off-course in their haste. “You know of Harry Potter, do you not?”

“Of course. Who doesn’t know about the Boy-Who-Lived?”

“He’s going to be attending Hogwarts this year,” he lowered his voice. There was a gravity about him that hadn’t been present before now, and Phoenix found herself thinking back to that previous image of a wise, serious headmaster-archetype. “You may find the two of you have some things in common. I think you’d do well together, if you ever find yourselves in need of some company. Or help.”

He reached into his robes and withdrew two envelopes, which bore the all-too-familiar Hogwarts coat of arms—a great letter H surrounded by a lion, snake, badger, and eagle—and emerald green script, bound together in thin, fraying string.

“Your letter,” he smiled, handing the bundle to Phoenix, who took it gingerly. “And a second something, specifically for you. It was rather difficult to get the Minister on board, but—”

“The Minister of Magic?”

“Yes. As it would happen, Fudge is an old friend of mine.” A pause. “Go ahead, Miss Skimple. Open it.”

Phoenix did as told, but reluctantly. The first envelope, as she had expected, was nothing more than an invitation to attend Hogwarts, a list of required materials for first-year students, and the usual reminder that first years were not allowed their own broomstick. The second, however, was unlike anything Phoenix could remember either of her siblings receiving. She considered reading it out loud, but couldn’t seem to form the words.

 

_Dear Miss Skimple,_

 

_Some exceptions have been made for your particular case at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. They are as follows:_

 

_Due to your early demonstration of knowledge of defensive spells, the Ministry of Magic has approved of your use of a Ministry-regulated Time-Turner starting in your third year. This will allow you, if you so choose, to settle any conflict in your course schedule._

 

“Use of a Time-Turner?” Phoenix asked, astonished. She looked up suddenly at Dumbledore, who was staring dazedly at a hanging landscape painting by one of Marinia’s favorite Muggle artists. “Isn’t that a bit—er—excessive? All I did was memorize a textbook.”

The headmaster—for all his childlike and mad-sounding ramblings—proved to be rather calm and sincere. He turned, unfazed by her amazement, and said in a cool voice, “Is that really all you did, Miss Skimple?”

Phoenix felt as if she’d been caught in some sort of trap. She’d lied. _Well, sort of._ She’d done a lot more than memorize a book, but she had truly believed—naïvely, she realized—that Dumbledore had only considered her in light of Jasper’s supposed success. No one else would have thought to dig deeper.  

“How did you…?”

“As I said.’ His smile grew. “Fudge is an old friend of mine. You may continue reading.”

 

_I have also decided to allow you regular use of the Restricted Section of the library. Enclosed is a written note of approval with my signature and expressed consent; if you are ever in need of a text that you believe may be found in this section, be it for academic or extra-curricular purposes, simply present the note to Madam Pince, the head librarian._

 

_Furthermore, you are allowed use of any empty classroom, with the exception of those in the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side, which are off-limits to all Hogwarts students. This, I hope, will encourage you—and any student who wishes to accompany you—to practice the practical application of the defensive theories for which you have already exhibited a great deal of knowledge and understanding._

 

_I must remind you that these are privileges. As such, they should not be boasted or abused._

 

_Yours sincerely,_

_Professor Albus Dumbledore_

_Headmaster, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

 

When she finished, Phoenix held the letter open on her lap; the headmaster was adding sugar to the dregs of his tea.

“I had, initially, planned on sending you the permissions through regular owl post,” he said, furrowing his brow. “But I feared you would have questions. Questions best answered in person.”

He was right, of course, but Phoenix wasn’t sure where to begin. She felt like reading through the letter a second time; however, she was sure she wouldn’t be able to concentrate with the headmaster watching her so. In the end, the word bubbled up before she could stop to consider it:

“Why?”

“ _Why?_ ” He laughed. “Because you have a natural gift, Miss Skimple. And gifts, I find, if nourished, can often come in handy.”

“Something still isn’t right about all this.” She knew it sounded disrespectful, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. There was definitely something wrong, something she was missing, that Dumbledore had somehow figured out how to use to his advantage, and she wondered if she’d ever see the big picture as thoroughly or easily as he.

 

As expected, Mr. and Mrs. Skimple exchanged nervous glances upon hearing the news.

“Phoenix got her letter!” Marinia shouted, throwing herself onto Phoenix’s plain, white bed.

“How nice,” Mr. Skimple whimpered. He excused himself to _‘help your mother with the dinner’_ just as Jasper rushed through the open bedroom door and nearly landed on top of his older sister, who’d perched on the edge of the mattress.

“What House you think you’ll be, eh?” he asked.

Both siblings raised their eyebrows and waited for Phoenix to answer, but nothing came. She’d just finished hiding her note of privileges inside a copy of _Dragon Species of Great Britain and Ireland_ when she heard the family reach the landing outside the apartment door, and she still felt a bit nauseous at the thought of it being found.

“Come on, Phoenix!” Marinia laughed and nudged her arm. When the younger witch said nothing, Marinia turned to her brother and leaned in close. “I bet you a Galleon she’ll be Sorted into Ravenclaw.”

“No way! She’s a Hufflepuff through-and-through.”

“If she’s put in Hufflepuff, I’ll buy you a nice, shiny Nimbus 2000,” she scowled. Then, realizing what she’d just implied, turned to Phoenix apologetically and said, “Not that I don’t _want_ you to be Hufflepuff. Of course I’d love to see you about the common room! I just think you’re more—”

“ _Intelligent_?” Jasper interjected. “She’s too smart to be a Hufflepuff, sure, but she’s also loyal and dedicated. That was Hufflepuff’s thing.”

Marinia shot him a glare.

“Why don’t we call her a Slytherin and call it a day?” No one had noticed Mrs. Skimple standing in the doorway. “Dinner’s nearly ready. Be down in five minutes.”

Marinia and Jasper were both nonplussed by their mother’s conclusion, but Phoenix seemed rather pleased.

“Everyone’s been in either Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw,” she laughed, relaxing for the first time since reading the second letter. “It may be good to have a Slytherin in the family. A nice change, don’t you think?”

 

Dinner passed in silence; Marinia and Jasper seemed unnerved by their mother’s interruption and Mr. and Mrs. Skimple, who’d dreaded this day for years, stared fixedly at their food the entire meal. The only things exchanged were plates and utensils. Phoenix finished her dish early and excused herself.

Now, for the first time, she thought about painting her bedroom. Of course, it would be some time before the summer holiday, when she’d come home, but she couldn’t help but consider the possibilities. Every room in the Skimple apartment was decorated with the House colors of a chosen family member: the dining room, living room, and both Jasper’s and the master bedroom sported Ravenclaw’s bold blue and bronze, while the kitchen and (of course) Marinia’s bedroom were decked in Hufflepuff yellow and black.

As of yet, the bathroom was the only shared space in the apartment that was completely blank. Though her own bedroom could be decorated in whatever fashion she prefered, Phoenix winced at the idea of walking into a bright yellow shower and black acrylic tub. It was the room least suited for Hufflepuff colors, she thought.

Then again, she’d rather _that_ than an extension of the already-endless blue that seemed to have invaded the rest of the apartment. Phoenix didn’t altogether hate the Ravenclaw colors, but it was her parents’ overwhelming pride in their Hogwarts House that really drove her over the brink. If she was Sorted into Ravenclaw, she thought she might just explode.

It was Mrs. Skimple’s comment that really intrigued her. Phoenix began to imagine her room painted Slytherin green with silver trim and dark wood furniture. The touch of darkness might add a certain eerie, ancient feel to the already worn and beaten books that were stacked haphazardly on her bookcase. I might even look _cool_.

She drifted off to sleep that night with all thoughts of Dumbledore and her privileges dissolving into the hazy impression of green and silver, a distant cackle, and a flash of bright green light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to hear what you think!


	4. The Keeper of the Keys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter in the original book happened within the span of maybe an hour. It was a bit limiting, but I think I've made it work. Sorry for the slow chapter.
> 
> Chapter 5 is all about her trip to Diagon Alley!

_Thunk_.

Phoenix was stirred from her nebulous dreams by a gentle tap on the door.

 _Thunk_ , a second rap. Was someone knocking? If they were, they weren’t doing a very good job of it, Phoenix concluded. It sounded as if their knuckles were being muffled by a very thick layer of something soft, like padding.

“Feathers,” Phoenix said, her eyes wide, and she shot out of bed. Avery McGuffin, the Skimple family’s small tawny owl, had never once visited her bedroom before, but here he sat, a large roll of parchment tied to his left leg, ready to ram his head against the hollow wooden door for a third time.

“Don’t do that!” Phoenix hissed.

Avery gave a quiet, indignant hoot, puffed his chest, and flew the perimeter of the room before landing on the center of her bed. Phoenix quickly checked the halls to make sure she hadn’t woken anyone and closed the door behind her. According to her wristwatch, it was just after midnight.

“Is that for me?” she asked, gesturing toward the parchment. Avery did nothing, but as she leaned down to untie the bundle he lightly nipped her thumb. “Ouch. What was that for?”

He tapped the outside of the roll with his beak and presented his leg, allowing Phoenix to read the addressee: _Marinia Juniper Skimple of Number Nine, Charing Cross Road, London. Sorry for the belated birthday message._

“What’d you bring this to me for? Got me up for nothing,” she muttered, sitting on the edge of her bedframe. For a moment, she considered trying to go back to sleep. But she knew this was impossible: she’d seen the flash of green light in her dreams _again_ , for the third time this month, which meant she’d be up all night _again_ thinking about possible spells and contemplating memories of Dark magic. She was sure this was a memory, after all, as she almost never had the same dream twice, but what exactly she was remembering she couldn’t fathom.

Once, when she was eight years old, she asked Mrs. Skimple about it at the dinner table—wondering whether or not it could be a premonition—and was told she was “ _being ridiculous, as always_ ” and not to bring the subject up again. She didn’t have to be told twice and, as such, hadn’t mentioned her recurring dream to anyone since.

Avery clicked his beak and made a point of stretching his wing to its fullest, only to have it fold, dramatically, in front of his eyes.

“Oh, yeah—er—sorry,” Phoenix whispered. She stood, flicked off the bedroom lights, and flopped backward onto the bundled-up sheets. “Night, Avery.”

But he didn’t respond. She assumed he’d either already fallen asleep, or he was keeping up with his theatrics. It didn’t matter; both ways, she was alone, on her back, staring at the dark ceiling and unable to think of anything but that mysterious green flash.

 

After a few minutes of restlessness, Phoenix’s brain began to scan the outskirts of her dream. There was not much else to recall, she thought. But a sharp, hysteric cackle shot through the room so clearly it caused the young witch to jump up from her spot on the bed and, to Avery’s discontent, throw the lights back on. She was sure someone had been there, inside her room, laughing right beside her.

But no one was there. Avery gave another hoot and shielded his eyes with a wing. After a quick sweeping glance of the hallway, Phoenix settled back down, this time in her rocking chair in the corner, and left the lights on.

"Only midnight,” she whined, picking up _Hairy Snout, Human Heart_ from the shelf and opening the book to chapter three. She could not focus on the text, however, and after reading the same page five times without recognizing a single word, she shut the book, put it back on the shelf, and tried, once again, to imagine that demented peel of laughter.

It was definitely feminine, she concluded...but that was all she could surmise from her vague memory.

She was stirred from her thoughts for the second time by Avery, who’d apparently become very cross with her and decided to find a darker perch. He jumped from the bed, headbutt the door with his forehead, and waited for Phoenix to let him into the hallway.

“Sorry,” she said again, watching him hop—his balance upset by the length and weight of the parchment tied to his left leg—toward the stairs and out of sight.

 

Phoenix was not the only one awake in the apartment that night. Mr. and Mrs. Skimple sat in the dining room with three pieces of yellowy parchment spread out before them on the table. Mr. Skimple called out the names of required Hogwarts materials and Mrs. Skimple quickly jotted down the price of each item with a black-and-gold pheasant-feather quill.

" _Advanced Rune Translation_ ,” Mr. Skimple said. “That’s the last one for Jasper.”

"Alright, Castor,” Mrs. Skimple sighed. “Doesn’t Marinia have a copy? We could just give him her old one.”

"No. She needs it for Ancient Runes Class this year, still. N.E.W.T.s coming up and all.”

"Castor, _Jasper_ is the one taking the N.E.W.T.-level course. Marina got the book from a school friend.”

Both stared down, unblinking, at the wooden table. Neither seemed willing to peruse the requirements for their youngest daughter, whose purchases this year would be astronomical compared to her siblings’. Aside from textbooks, they knew, she still needed her uniform, wand, cauldron, and some other equipment she’d only need to replace every few years.

It took half-an-hour for the two to estimate the total price of the expenditure, after which both were noticeably paler than when they had begun. With a final, worrying glance, Mr. Skimple turned toward his wife and mumbled.

“What is that, Castor?” she snapped. “Speak up.”

“I said,” he nearly whispered. His cheeks changed from a sickly white to a deep maroon under her scrutinizing gaze. “What about her gift?”

“What gift?” She gathered all three letters, along with their calculations, and stuffed the roll into her lime green alligator purse, which hung heavily off the back of her chair. “I’m not buying her anything extra, Castor.”

“But we did get Marinia a new chess set, remember? And Jasper got an owl his first year.”

“Well,” she said, standing and pushing in her seat. “I suppose, if she asks for something affordable, we should _consider_ giving her something special. So it’s your job to make sure she doesn’t ask.”

    


	5. Diagon Alley

“It’s almost ten o’clock,” Mrs. Skimple scowled, perching on the arm of her husband’s favorite violet armchair. “We don’t have all day, Castor.”

“It’s holiday, Aurelia. We’ve nowhere else to go,” Mr. Skimple mumbled into his newspaper. The young witch in a black-and-white advert for Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions jumped, suddenly, into the neighboring article as an ink broomstick sped past, proudly displaying the model name _Nimbus 2000_ printed on its handle as it went. “I don’t see any coupons, dear.”

“Well, I certainly don’t want to waste all my time in Diagon Alley, following _her_ around, as if any good’s bound to come from her going to that school. Last thing we need is for her to learn how to—”

“We’ve discussed this, Aurelia,” Mr. Skimple said sternly, looking up, for the first time that morning, at a very pale, very _nervous_ , caricature of his wife. “She’ll go with Jasper and I to Gringotts. _You_ can take Marinia to Flourish and Blotts. She’ll meet up with that Tonks girl, won’t she? Inseparable.”

“Dora graduated at the end of last year, Castor, you know that.” She stood, smoothed the creases in her skirt, and made her way to the landing. “Children,” she shouted, “you’ve ten minutes. We’re heading out the door.”

Marinia was the first to appear in the living room. She was wearing socks with two different patterns—one yellow with black toes, the other orange with thick, horizontal red stripes—and had clearly neglected to brush her black hair, which had developed a small knot between her shoulder blades that reminded Mr. Skimple of a bird’s nest.

“Mawn—aaaw—nin,’” she yawned, stealing the seat closest to her father. She leaned forward and tried, in vain, to read the latest Rita Skeeter gossip column over his shoulder.

“Good morning,” Mr. Skimple chuckled in reply. He angled the _Daily Prophet_ slightly, giving her a better view. “How’re they doing? Up yet?”

“Jasper fell asleep on the toilet again,” she laughed. “And Phoenix was digging through her bedsheets for something.”

Phoenix appeared in the doorway, dressed half-hurriedly in a pair of sneakers, jean shorts, and a white button-up shirt. She rolled her sleeves halfway to the elbow, reached into her back pocket, and withdrew a comb.

“Here,” she yawned, tossing it to Marinia, who watched as it fell into her lap. “Your hair needs some—” She wiggled the fingers of her right hand in a gesture that Marinia was certain made sense to her younger sister, but meant nothing in particular to either her or Mr. Skimple. “Jasper’s coming down in a minute. Put his shoes on backward and couldn’t get one off.”

   

It was quarter past ten when Mr. and Mrs. Skimple were finally able to lead their children down Charing Cross Road to a tiny pub called the Leaky Cauldron. Mrs. Skimple led the way, followed closely by Marinia, who waved enthusiastically to the bartender; the two had passed the bar, maneuvered through several crosshatched groups of tables and chattering wizards, and entered the cramped, brick courtyard on the opposite side before Mr. Skimple, Jasper, and Phoenix had even finished saying hello to one of Mr. Skimple’s old Hogwarts friends.

“Hurry, Castor.” Mrs. Skimple had stuck her head inside the pub, but seemed reluctant to leave the courtyard completely. “It’ll close.”

"No, it won’t,” Jasper whispered to Phoenix as they said their good-byes to a very drunk Mr. Howard Thornell. “Mum’s just upset. Never seen her so nervous.”

Phoenix shrugged.

“We’re all going away this year,” he continued, tiptoeing around an amber-brown puddle. “She’s probably worried, what with no kids at home to keep her distracted.”

Phoenix wasn’t so sure. It felt like Mrs. Skimple was trying to rush her through the door...and quite literally; she’d grabbed Phoenix by the wrist and pulled her through a wide gap in the courtyard’s brick wall, which began to close the moment all five Skimples had crossed onto the busy street beyond.

Diagon Alley was bustling with witches and wizards—some of whom Phoenix recognized as Hogwarts students and friends of Marinia and Jasper—in cloaks of every vibrant color. There were shops displaying posters with moving photographs, boxes of miniature, model dragons, and books that were caged or tied shut to keep them from devouring one another. Phoenix had walked Diagon Alley too many times to count, but the shops and vans lining the street never failed to amaze or surprise her. As they passed Madam Malkin’s Robes, she remembered something Marinia had mumbled to her that morning in passing:

" _Since it’s your first year, you get to do all the fun stuff.”_

Marinia and Jasper had tailored robes already, as well as a cauldron each (which were both in good condition), brass scales, a telescope, and a wand. They only had need to replenish their supply of potion ingredients and find whatever new textbooks their courses required, while Phoenix had to make extra trips to Madam Malkin’s Robes and Ollivander’s Wand Shop (Mrs. Skimple had announced that morning, with a huff, that she would find all of her books and equipment _“without you”_ ) and she knew, from her siblings’ eagerness to meet up with some mutual school friends, that she’d most likely be doing so alone.

   

One building along Diagon Alley towered over all the others. It was a pure white bank, looming precariously above the rest, nearly magisterial in its own self-proclaimed importance. Buried in her thoughts, Phoenix hadn’t noticed their proximity to Gringotts until the large, bronze front doors stood before the three remaining Skimples.

Two guards, clad in uniforms of scarlet and gold, ushered Phoenix and Jasper inside while Mr. Skimple searched his robes for his vault key. Phoenix watched the guards as they considered her adoptive father: they were goblins—short, ugly human-like creatures with long fingers and feet and pointed beards—as were most of the Gringotts employees, and they looked as if their disgust of wizards, upon seeing such a clumsy display, had reached a pinnacle. Their lips curled into subtle sneers and their eyes betrayed a certain malice. When Mr. Skimple finally produced the key from the sleeve of his cloak with a loud “Aha!” Phoenix let go of a heavy breath she had not realized she’d been holding.

Carved into the second set of silver doors was a warning that Jasper, as always, read aloud:

 _"Enter, stranger, but take heed_  
_Of what awaits the sin of greed_  
_For those who take, but do not earn,_  
_Must pay most dearly in their turn._  
_So if you seek beneath our floors_  
_A treasure that was never yours,_  
_Thief, you have been warned, beware_  
_Of finding more than treasure there._ "

Phoenix rolled her eyes and continued on, leaving Jasper to bow low to his father, who clapped indifferently and grabbed him by the shoulder. As they entered the next hall, Phoenix kept her eyes down. Around the marble room, sitting at high, wooden counters, were dozens of goblins. It wasn’t that she didn’t like goblins, she just wasn’t sure whether or not they liked her in return. Just as the two guards outside had shown a lingering distaste for wizards, the tellers and workers of Gringotts seemed perturbed and annoyed by their clientele.

Mr. Skimple was waved toward the counter, gave his name and vault number, produced (with an impressive smile) the small, brass key, and told his children to wait in the main hall. Phoenix knew that Jasper absolutely detested the carts—he’d only made two trips through the underground passages and both had left him extremely nauseous and irritable—and, though she personally had no trouble getting to and from the vault, she understood how speeding through the stone catacombs on what seemed a simple, unsupported railroad track _could_ cause some people to panic.

After nearly ten minutes of mutual silence, Jasper grabbed his sister by the arm and spun her around.

“Look,” he whispered, nodding towards the door. “If he’s not half giant…”

Jasper’s voice trailed off as the man, three times as wide as Mr. Skimple and at least twice as tall, made his way through the main hall, passed the Skimple children, and began to speak with a vacant teller. A boy, no older than Phoenix, with dark, messy hair looked about in amazement, his bright green eyes as round as saucers.

“Got to be your age, don’t you think?” Jasper asked as Mr. Skimple, who’d just reentered through a smaller door to their right, came hurrying from the torch-lit passageways. “I don’t recognize him.”

“Come on now,” said Mr. Skimple. “Jasper and I to Flourish and Blotts to meet up with your mother. Phoenix, to Madam Malkin’s.”

 

Phoenix was quite happy to be left alone. It was much more pleasant, at least, than being scrutinized and belittled by Mrs. Skimple, who thought it just to correct the girl for very minor, stupid things. In such a place as Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions—where Phoenix would be forced to stand in stiff positions for long periods of time as a witch placed pins in the uniform’s fabric—Mrs. Skimple would have the opportunity to pick and snap at her adoptive daughter with little fuss; it wasn’t as if Phoenix would argue with her mother (at least, not in public), or as if she’d have the ability to escape.

Madam Malkin was a squat witch, always smiling, who, today, was dressed in all mauve. She greeted Phoenix as she entered the shop.

“Hello, Asteria, dear. Haven’t seen you in here in some time.”

“Hello, Madam Malkin,” Phoenix said, wondering whether or not to tell the older witch of her nickname. She decided against it, however, as she was guided enthusiastically to the back of the shop, where she was asked to stand on one of two adjacent footstools.

“First year at Hogwarts,” Malkin said, slipping fresh black robes over Phoenix’s head. “You excited, dear?”

“Of course,” the girl said, tucking a lock of dark brown hair behind her right ear. She stood quite still, terrified of being pinned by mistake, and delved into her interest in Magical Creatures. Madam Malkin nodded and contributed, now and then, with one-word responses. But Phoenix had the unflappable impression that the older witch was unimpressed.

When Malkin was nearly done, and Phoenix’s arms a tad sore, another soon-to-be Hogwarts student sauntered through the shop doors. He was pale, with a pointed face and white blond hair. Phoenix recognized him immediately as Draco Malfoy, the son of one of Mr. Skimple’s coworkers at the Ministry, but he seemed not to know who she was.

“Draco Malfoy,” he said, his chin raised high as he mounted his footstool. Madam Malkin called and a second, younger witch appeared from a door behind them. The boy held up his arms and allowed a set of robes to be pulled over his head. “Who are you?”

“My name is...my name is Phoenix Skimple,” she muttered. “I’m going to be a first year.”

“Hogwarts, yeah? What House are you hoping to get?”

Phoenix did not think; she simply said the first thing that came to mind.

“Slytherin.” She blanched. Madam Malkin paused, then slowly began to inspect her work. “What about you?”

She wasn’t at all surprised to hear him declare his love for Slytherin House, nor recount his entire family history. From what she knew of the Malfoys, they were of a proud and noble lineage and seldom missed the opportunity to inform others of their supposed superiority.

“Dark wizards, the lot of them,” Mr. Skimple had said. Phoenix tried to be pleasant despite this; just because Draco was born into a pureblood, Muggle-hating family didn’t mean he’d necessarily end up turning _evil_. Still, she was glad when Madam Malkin handed over her new school uniform and bade her a good day.

“I’ll be seeing you soon, then.” Draco smirked.

 

Ollivander’s was a small, dingy shop, not unlike the Leaky Cauldron in appearance—unimpressive and unassuming. The gold paint above the door was peeling and dust had settled across the window frame. There was not much of a display, either: a single wand placed on a faded, purple cushion. It was here that so many brilliant wiches and wizards shopped. Here where Garrick Ollivander, the world’s greatest wandmaker, shared his unique gift and power with the world. Here where wizards from far and wide would buy their wands, because it was _here_ where the greatest wands were sold. This place had such renown, such _repute_...but had Phoenix not known this prior to her visit, she would have assumed the shop had not been visited in years.

A bell sounded somewhere as Phoenix stepped inside.

“Good morning,” Mr. Ollivander greeted her. He was an old man, rather bright for his age, with pale blue eyes that cut through the dust and dim. “Miss Asteria Skimple, is it not?”

Phoenix shook his hand.

“Call me Phoenix.” Her attention had fallen to the single chair in the corner nearest the door. Should she sit, should she not sit? Was it proper for her to stand, or would this take some time? It’d been years since she’d been to Ollivander’s, and then it’d been the entire family...if someone _had_ been sitting, it would have been Mrs. Skimple and not the person buying the wand.

“This shouldn’t take too long.” His soft laugh permeated the air. In such a small space, each and every sound seemed to reverberate against the walls, piled high with hundreds (if not thousands) of narrow boxes, and echo with a newfound life of its own.

Ollivander reached into one pile and carefully withdrew a single, black box. He opened it, held the wand gingerly with the tips of his fingers, and whispered, “Cedar, ten inches, solid, with a core of dragon heart-string.”

He held it out for Phoenix to take, but retracted almost immediately.

“I barely touched it,” Phoenix muttered, ashamed. If possible, she felt dismissed...by a piece of wood, at that. “Can you really tell already?”

“Yes, I can,” he chuckled. “And this is not the wand for you.”

He went back to the pile, located a second, and presented it, once again, for Phoenix to take.

“Red oak, eleven inches, dragon heart-string,” he listed under his breath. “Solid.”

Phoenix reached out slowly, wondering how long she’d be allowed to hold this one without somehow proving inept, and did the elementary “swish and flick” movement Marinia had taught her to do while performing simple charms. Nothing happened with the wand, but Mr. Ollivander frowned, tssked, and snatched it back from the young witch. As he stared down at the dark, polished wood, inspecting the quality of some magical component Phoenix was unable to detect, his eyes widened and the juncture of his lips twitched.

Mr. Ollivander put the wand back into its narrow box and stalked over to the pile. Unlike the times before, he seemed to know precisely what he was looking for. The boxes were tagless, unmarked, but he seemed to know the exact contents of each as his eyes searched the outward-facing ends. In one smooth motion, he replaced a dark, reddish brown package in the bottom corner with the one clutched in his right hand. Phoenix was impressed with the seamless exchange, as she had nearly expected the entire row to topple over.

“Rowan wood, eleven inches, inflexible. Phoenix feather core.” His smile was soft, but his pale moon eyes glowed with accomplished determination. “Give it a go.”

As he held the open box out toward Phoenix, she took an imperceptible step backward; something about this moment felt significant, and she wasn’t sure she was really ready for what was to come. What if this wand chose her? All by itself, the thought was not so unappealing, but what if—encased in that simple, deep red cut of wood—was the capacity, the _urge_ , to do wrong? This instrument would guide and channel her magic, so it was liable to select a wizard who suited its personal preferences, complementing or collimating its strength and character. What if it chose Phoenix because it somehow sensed in her the potential to do great _evil_?

What if Mrs. Skimple was right? That Phoenix should never have been encouraged to study magic herself, never mind allowed into the greatest wizarding school in the world.

Phoenix took a steadying breath and gripped the wand firmly in her left hand; to her chagrin, it did nothing. But Mr. Ollivander was not deterred.

“Give it a go,” he insisted, laughing. “Wave it about.”

“Alright,” she muttered.

Phoenix clenched her fist around the handle, extended her arm, and dragged the wand sideways through the air. With a second’s delay, a silvery mist burst from the tip and floated across the room like a glittering cloud, without definite shape or form. Phoenix’s eyes widened in disbelief and the mist dissipated, leaving behind a distinctly rosy smell.

“Well, there we go,” the wandmaker laughed, placing the wand back into the open box, which Phoenix noticed was lined in thin, black velvet. “Didn’t take too long, now, did it?”

Phoenix paid him seven Galleons and thanked him. He turned to retreat through a back door when Phoenix suddenly remembered her curiosity.

“Mr. Ollivander, may I ask you a question?”

The older wizard seemed surprised at her interest, as if it were uncommon for wizards to wonder at the wandlore that forged their most prominent aid. The pale moons of his irises widened.

“Of course, my dear,” he chuckled, tucking the money safely into his pocket. “Ask away.”

Phoenix paused...she _had_ intended on bringing up some rather interesting inquiries, but at the moment a much more troublesome thought had emerged, pressing on her brain. A flash of green light, a cold, high-pitched laugh, and a furious, fearful scowl on Mrs. Skimple’s face invaded her mind as vibrantly as any nightmare.

“The wand,” her voice wavered. “Is it good?”

To her surprise, Mr. Ollivander smiled.

“I think you should understand what I say. You seem as if you’d comprehend,” he praised, taking the dark wood gently in his fingertips once again. “Phoenix feathers—used as a wand core, that is—are quite rare. And though I cannot claim to know _why_ a wand chooses a specific witch or wizard, I have noticed in my many, many years of work that phoenix feather cores tend to be more particular than that of either unicorn hair or dragon heart-string. They produce a great range of magic with the proper, _deserved_ , trust and loyalty. Rowan wood, similarly, is very powerful. A greater wand for dueling or charms you will never—”

“But is it…” Phoenix interrupted. Her neck and cheeks were flushed a sickly pale. “Is it... _good_?”

“Oh, you mean—” Ollivander laid the wand back in its place. He smiled again, handing the box to Phoenix, whose hands had begun to shake slightly, and continued in a low, raspy voice. “I remember every wand I have ever sold, Miss Skimple. As such, I have witnessed the tendencies and particularities of the magical components of wandlore and have personally disputed the grounds of many rumours surrounding them: precious few are true. It is considered ‘common knowledge’ that rowan wood should choose only those of pure heart.”

Phoenix wilted. Surely, Mr. Ollivander was about to give his rebuttle. He continued.

“But I can say honestly that rowan’s reputed proclivity for virtue, in my experience, is absolute.”

 

Marinia came home later that night, excited despite her exhaustion.

“Tonks had me play Keeper,” she explained, collapsing on Phoenix’s bed. “What happened to you?”

“I’ll tell you in the morning,” Phoenix yawned, raking stray dark hairs from her forehead and eyes. She was too tired now, and far too astonished, to explain the jumbled mess of memories and anxieties shuffling to the forefront of her mind and fighting for her attention.

“Can I give you your present at least?” Marinia asked, displaying a proud and devious smirk.

“What d’you mean, ‘present’?” Phoenix laughed. She lifted herself onto her elbows and watched her sister through narrowed eyes. “I thought Mum would _kill_ any of us if we—”

“I didn’t go to Mum,” she scoffed and rolled her eyes. “Dad was more than willing to dish out a few Galleons.”

“Alright then.”

She half expected Marinia to withdraw something small and thin from beneath her cloak, but the older witch stood, hurried up and down the hall with heavy, careless footsteps, and poked her head back in through the bedroom door.

“Promise you’ll take care of her?”

“ _Her_?” Phoenix whispered. “You got me an animal? Really?”

“Well, I know how much you’ve always wanted your own owl, so…” her voice dissolved as she stepped into the room, a small bundle of white and light reddish-brown feathers perched precariously in the crook of her arm. In her other hand, she swung a tall metal cage. “We haven’t named her yet.’

The owl turned it’s head toward Phoenix, who let out a stifled screech. Her eyes were black pools, perfectly rounded. They bore intently into Phoenix.

“Can I?” she asked, extending her arm.

Marinia nodded and the baby owl reached out one short leg, clutching the fabric of Phoenix’s pajamas, and looked to the older witch for reassurance.

“Go on,” the Hufflepuff said, leaning closer to her younger sister. The tawny owl pulled it’s second leg forward and balanced on Phoenix’s arm. She turned excitedly between Marinia and Phoenix and gave a strangled, high-pitched chirp.

“She’s all fluff,” Phoenix cooed, petting the soft feathers at the junction of the bird’s scrawny wings. “What should I name her?”

“It depends. Do you want to name it something silly, like Avery McGuffin, or something slightly serious?”

“Serious, I guess.” Phoenix lifted her arm so that she and the owl were eye-to-eye. “What about Hemera?”

“Hemera?” Marinia laughed. “That sounds fine. I was expecting something like ‘Kelpie,’ or ‘Animagus’ from you. Yeah, Hemera works.”

Marinia made her way to the door, switching off the lights as she passed.

“Night, Nyx. Night, Hemera.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 6 is written and I'm in the process of editing. It should be up by Friday, at the latest, as long as nothing unexpected happens *knocks on wood*. 
> 
> I'm really sorry if there are any grammatical or spelling errors; I have no one to proofread for me. :( 
> 
> Anyways, tell me what you guys are thinking! Did you like the wand? the character cameos? the owl? Any guesses on her Hogwarts House? Anything you want to see in the upcoming chapters? I'd love to hear it!


	6. The Journey from Platform Nine and Three-Quarters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long to write, but this is the longest existing chapter by far. Chapter 7 looks like it's going to be about half the length.

On the morning of Saturday, August the 31st, Phoenix was hurried out of the kitchen by Mrs. Skimple, who was thrusting burnt pieces of toast, lathered in a thick layer of marmalade, into her children's hands and shouting.

“Come on, the lot of you. Your father and I are going out today and won’t be back until nearly sundown. I want all your things packed by then. Am I clear?” She craned her long, thin neck above the three students and watched, eyes narrowed, as they each stalked lazily up the stairs.

“Can’t believe it,” Marinia said, heading toward her room. “We’ll be gone for _months_ and she’s going off?”

Phoenix paused by her sister’s door.

“Do you—” Her wavering voice was soft and her eyes, normally dark brown, had diluted and grayed. She seemed as small and timid as Marinia had ever seen her. “Do you miss then when you leave? I mean, while you’re at Hogwarts you have friends and homework and Quidditch and all sorts of things to keep you occupied.”

“Of course I miss them.” Phoenix did not return her smile, which was meant to be reassuring. “I miss _you_ , too. And I can bet they’ll worry about you this year. Parents always do.”

Phoenix opened her mouth to rebuttal, closed it again, blanched, and continued on to her bedroom. She did not look up when her brother called her name from the end of his bed, nor did she appear downstairs when Marinia announced that she’d prepared lunch several hours later. She locked herself in her room with Hemera, whose head was tucked underneath one wing, and checked off books and equipment as she tossed them carelessly in (or, more precisely, at) her open trunk. Around noon, her things all stored away and sorted to some degree, she reinspected her official Hogwarts list:

 

UNIFORM

First-year students will require:

  1. Three sets of plain work robes (black)
  2. One plain pointed hat (black) for daywear
  3. One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)
  4. One winter cloak (black, silver fastenings)



 

Phoenix had bought a new set of robes at Madam Malkin’s the previous month; the three sets were folded neatly and stuffed at the bottom of her trunk, along with a slightly-tattered pointed hat that had once belonged to Marinia, a secondhand pair of dragon hide gloves, and a new winter cloak, which she had received as a birthday present earlier that year. When she was sure she had her entire uniform _somewhere_ in her luggage, she continued.

 

COURSE BOOKS

All students should have a copy of each of the following:

_The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1)_

by Miranda Goshawk

 _A History of Magic_ by Bathilda Bagshot

 _Magical Theory_ by Adalbert Waffling

 _A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration_ by Emeric Switch

_One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi_

by Phyllida Spore

 _Magical Draughts and Potions_ by Arsenius Jigger

_Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_

by Newt Scammander

_The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection_

by Quentin Trimble

 

Those, all donated by her older siblings, were stacked on top of the robes in two piles of four. Around them, Phoenix managed to maneuver and squeeze in a few of her preferred readings: _The Standard Book of Spells_ , Grades 2 and 3, _The Essential Defence Against the Dark Arts_ , _Most Macabre Monstrosities, Dragon Species of Great Britain and Ireland, Hogwarts: A History_ , by Bathilda Bagshot, and _Hairy Snout, Human Heart_. It seemed very unlikely she’d be able to close her trunk completely, but the thing gave very little resistance...that is, of course, until she realized there was yet another section to her list, which caused her to groan—starting Hemera awake with a loud, high-pitched screech—and throw the lid open.

“How am I going to fit a cauldron, telescope, and a set of glass phials into this thing?” she hissed through her teeth at nothing in particular. Hemera jumped suddenly to the back of her cage.

Phoenix stopped; her cheeks were hot (and, most likely, a very dark shade of red) and her breathing had become heavy and quick. It wasn’t just the stress of packing, she concluded, but that gave her no right to take it out on an innocent baby owl. She dug into her pocket, taking out one of the treats Jasper had given her (“Igor really likes them, so I thought I’d gift you some to try with Hemera.”), and swung open the door of the small, metal cage.

“I’m sorry, Hemera,” she cooed. Phoenix held the treat in her bare palm and waited patiently for the tawny owl to come to her. It didn’t take long; Phoenix clicked her tongue comfortingly and began to hum, which signaled a significant change in her mood to Hemera. She reached one thin, bony leg toward the outstretched hand, latched onto a finger, and took the owl treat. When she’d finished swallowing, Phoenix began slowly retracting from the cage.

“Good girl,” Phoenix whispered, patting Hemera at the base of her neck. “Oh, you really are all fluff right here, aren’t you?”

Hemera puffed up her feathers; like this, she was nearly twice her normal size. She clicked her beak happily and began to climb up the sleeve of Phoenix’s shirt with enthusiasm, leaving shallow marks on the skin beneath with her minuscule talons. Phoenix laughed and offered the baby owl a finger, but Hemera refused, dodging the digit and struggling up the steep slope of Phoenix’s arm.

“I guess I could put the phials and scales inside of the cauldron,” Phoenix pondered aloud, searching the room for her equipment. “If I put one of the robes around the phials—to keep them from breaking, that is—then there’s some room in the trunk for the telescope. Plus, I probably should wear my uniform on the train, shouldn’t I? Else, I’ll have to dig through my trunk while we’re traveling, and that won’t be fun.”

Hemera gave a silly hoot, which sounded more like an airy whistle, and extended her wings.

“Of course,” Phoenix laughed. “I _should_ bring you along, too, shouldn’t I?”

The owl gave another funny sort of chirp.

“Yes, you _would_ be a lot of fun. How did I not think of it sooner?”

 

Mr. and Mrs. Skimple were both in a foul mood when they returned later that evening. Mr. Skimple kept snapping at Jasper, who was only trying to ask for the salt, and complaining that he never had enough time to relax and read the _Daily Prophet_. His wife, on the other hand, argued that he had too much time, and that she’d never seen him without his nose in a newspaper.

“There’s a bit of ink on it, to be honest,” she sniped, snatching up her napkin and wetting it with a bit of spit. “Here, let me get it.”

Mr. Skimple muttered something under his breath that made Jasper blanch and stare down fixedly at his half-eaten baked potato. Marinia seemed unsure of what to do, but Phoenix was rather pleased; it was moments like these that made her so extremely happy to be finally leaving for Hogwarts. Perhaps, she theorized, she was more grateful at having nothing to miss once she was away, which seemed both a blessing and a pity.

In contrast, the next morning Mr. and Mrs. Skimple were incredibly calm. They woke Marinia and Jasper at seven o’clock sharp (Phoenix had been awake and pacing for a little under two hours) and settled in the living room. When the three children headed downstairs half-an-hour later, they found they’d each been made a hot cup of tea, a large pile of scrambled eggs, several pieces of golden toast with jelly, and long strips of bacon.

“Make sure you finish your whole breakfast,” Mrs. Skimple sang, offering Jasper her seat. “It’s a long while until the feast tonight, and I don’t want you scarfing down candy from the trolley on an empty stomach.”

“Oh, and speaking of the trolley,” Mr. Skimple mumbled, reaching beneath his navy cloak. “Three Sickles. That should be more than enough.”

Marinia and Jasper reached out eagerly and stuffed the silver coins in their pants pockets. Phoenix relaxed into her deep blue armchair, nibbling on the crust of her toast.

“Go on,” her father chuckled. His doughy cheeks dimpled. “Take some, Asteria. You’re allowed, too.”

Phoenix looked to Mrs. Skimple, who nodded reluctantly, and took the money. The Skimples didn’t usually approve of sweets, so, despite their proximity to Diagon Alley and Phoenix’s immersion in the wizarding world, she’d never once had a Chocolate Frog and had tasted only a handful of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans. Marinia and Jasper, each year, were given an allowance for trips to Hogsmeade—an all-wizard village just outside the Hogwarts grounds—most of which they purportedly spent in a sweets shop called Honeydukes. But neither of them were foolish enough to bring anything home; Mrs. Skimple would confiscate it in an instant.

The five talked for nearly two hours, pausing now and again to take another bite of their breakfasts, which were steadily growing colder. Mrs. Skimple had to reheat their meals several times with a simple charm, which always seemed to somehow go askew, either making the plates unbearably hot or inadvertently crisping the bacon and making the room stink of burnt pork.

“Well,” Mr. Skimple said once they’d all finished eating. “Better head off. Get your trunks into the car and I’ll see you to the station.”

 

Like every year, Mr. Skimple used what little pull he had in the Ministry of Magic to borrow a car with which to take his children to King’s Cross Station. They were all the same: dark green, sleek, with several useful enchantments to enlarge the interior—allowing all five family members, three trunks, and two owl cages to somehow fit comfortably. The eyes of any Muggle coming in or out of the bookshop beneath the Skimples’ apartment darted from one end of the car to the next. They did not notice its unnatural capacity, despite the fact that Jasper’s barn owl Igor was pounding hysterically against the metal bars of his cage (an act that would normally gather Muggles’ attention); in fact, it was almost as if they couldn’t see the vehicle _at all._

They arrived at King’s Cross half-an-hour before the train was scheduled to leave. Mr. Skimple stepped out to unload the trunk and Jasper and Marinia raced to see who could find an empty trolley first, while Phoenix reached into the back seat to retrieve both Igor and Hemera’s cages.

When Marinia and Jasper had returned, and all three students helped their father stack their trunks and possessions on the carts, Mrs. Skimple got out of the passenger seat and hugged her oldest children.

“Send me an owl sometime this week, alright?” she said, wiping tears from her green eyes. She turned to Phoenix unexpectedly, nodded, and got back into her seat. “Tell me what House you’re in. I’ll paint your room before summer holiday.”

“Er—th-thank you,” Phoenix stuttered, astounded. She followed her siblings through the bustling Muggle crowds until they reached the barrier between platforms nine and ten. Jasper, who was pushing all three trunks ahead of him, ran through the brick divider and disappeared. Marinia, with a trolley carrying both owl cages and Phoenix’s pewter cauldron, followed suit, leaving the youngest Skimple standing alone. She must have been a spectacle to Muggles, she thought, sporting a thin, dark rouge cloak and holding a smoothed, polished stick of wood. She waited a moment, staring intently at the barrier, and broke into a run.

Though she’d been to King’s Cross Station several times, Mrs. Skimple had never let Phoenix out of the car, so she was slightly surprised to find that the passage to platform nine and three-quarters was painless...in fact, it was rather anticlimactic. She didn’t know exactly what she’d expected, but it wasn’t the seamless magic she’d just experienced.

Before she opened her eyes, she heard Marinia yelling through the crowd, “Phoenix, over here! Look and see what Lee’s got in his box!”

“Spoiler alert: it’s a giant tarantula.”

“Jasper!”

Lee Jordan was standing in a circle of first-year students, who each took a step back when the lid was removed, revealing a long, hairy leg. Jasper, of course, abandoned his cart and joined the crowd. His blond head stood above all the rest.

“Weird creatures,” Marinia scoffed.

“I’m not a fan of spiders,” Phoenix agreed, grabbing the neglected trolley. “I mean, they’re not terrible, but I prefer—”

“I was talking about boys.”

“Oh,” Phoenix laughed, relaxing. “Yeah, I get that.”

 

Jasper and Marinia introduced Phoenix to their friends, most of whom she recognized by name. It was nearly eleven o’clock by the time the three decided to get their things onto the train and reserve seats.

“Ten minutes until the Hogwarts Express leaves,” Marinia said, stepping through the door of the enormous scarlet steam engine and glancing through the narrow hall. “No sign of Fred or George anywhere.”

“They’re always late.” Jasper lifted the first trunk up the steep steps and turned to Phoenix, who handed him the second. “But do you really want to see them? I heard Percy’s been made a prefect. Can’t imagine how unbearable he’s gonna be this year.”

“As if he isn’t already unbearable?”

Phoenix picked up Igor’s cage and passed it through the open door. All that was left on the trolley were Phoenix’s trunk, cauldron, and owl; everything else had already been tucked into the corner of a nearby compartment.

“Well, that’s my point, innit?” Jasper laughed, pointing back to the wrought-iron archway where the barrier was supposed to be. A tall, thin fifth-year boy with flaming red hair and horn-rimmed glasses had just appeared on the platform. He stuck out his chest, parading a scarlet-and-gold badge, on which was written the letter P. “Look how pompous.”

Marinia and Jasper both laughed at this, but Phoenix was too focused on the archway. A second boy came running through. He had his brother’s red hair and freckles.

“That’s George.”

“No, it isn’t,” Marinia hissed. “It’s Fred.” His identical twin appeared seconds later. “ _That’s_ George.”

“I’ll bet you a silver Sickle—”

While her siblings were arguing, several sixth- and seventh-year students had began filling in the empty seats of the compartment, trying to grab Marinia’s attention. Phoenix directed her trolley toward the rear of the train in hopes of finding some other lonely first-year students.

The twins, Fred and George, were helping some dark-haired boy lift his trunk up the stairs. Phoenix cleared her throat.

“Excuse me,” she said. The three students all turned. “Um...could I sit with you?”

“Of course,” the boy answered, placing his snowy owl’s cage in the corner beside his trunks.

“You need any help?” one of the twins asked.

They did not wait for Phoenix’s answer; one stepped down from the train and lifted the trunk, cauldron, and cage above his head in succession while the other grabbed the items, once within reach, and placed them opposite the first-year’s possessions. The one at the bottom of the stairs turned suddenly to Phoenix and extended his hand.

“I’m Fred Weasley, by the way,” he said, shaking Phoenix’s hand (and arm) enthusiastically. “And this is my brother George.”

“I know who you are,” Phoenix smiled. “My dad works for the Ministry...in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.”

“That’s a mouthful, innit?” George laughed. He squatted on the edge of the top step and shook Phoenix’s hand as well. “What division?”

“Centaur Liaison Office,” she blushed. “I know it’s not the greatest—”

“Hold on. You wouldn’t happen to be Asteria, would you?”

“Dad’s told us all about you,” George said, hopping down from the car.

“Told us more about Marinia, of course.”

“Because of her _thing_ for Muggles.”

“Says _you_ have a thing for half-breeds.”

“And Jasper told us all about the O.W.L.s at the end of last term.”

“How did you know all that stuff?”

“Brilliant work, mind.”

By now, Phoenix was not sure which twin was which. She was glad when the black-haired boy finally spoke up in a wavering, timid voice, “Are you a first year, too?”

“Yeah.” Phoenix mounted the steps and pulled herself into the compartment, Fred and George following closely behind. “You can call me Phoenix. Phoenix Skimple.”

“Harry Potter.”

Phoenix tried very hard _not_ to search the boy’s face for the legendary lightning-shaped scar; the twins, it seemed, had no qualms with their initial impulse. They both stared at Harry’s forehead unblinkingly for five very long, very _awkward_ seconds, after which their concentration was broken by their mother shouting, “Fred. George. Are you there?”

“Coming, Mum,” they said in unison.

Phoenix and Harry shuffled closer to the window and sat down. They both had a perfect view of the Weasley family, which—apart from Percy and the twins—consisted of a short, squat witch, a lanky first-year boy with a long nose and robes that were a few inches too short, and a girl who (in Phoenix’s opinion) was definitely too young to be a Hogwarts student.  Each family member had the same flaming red hair and pale freckles. There was no sign of Mr. Weasley, the only one Phoenix had previously met, albeit when she was _maybe_ eight years old.

The mother took out a handkerchief and tried to wipe a black mark from the tip of the younger boy’s noise.

Phoenix watched intently for some time, caught up in the strangely wonderful culture that was the innumerable Weasley clan, but immediately lost interest when Percy neared, flashing his prefect badge as he parted the crowd.

 _Really_ , she thought, _some people’s self-importance...it’s just astonishing._ The Weasley’s voices faded into the background and Phoenix set to petting Hemera through the metal bars. It was only when she heard the legendary name— _Harry Potter!_ —that she finally began paying attention.

The little girl jumped up and down, gripping her mother’s hand as she whined, “Oh, Mum, can I go on the train and see him, Mum, oh please…”

“That must be Ginny,” Phoenix said, startling Harry, who’d nearly forgotten he was not, in fact, alone in the compartment. “She’s the youngest. I believe she starts school next year.”

Harry gave a quick grunt in acknowledgment, but did not respond beyond that. He was glued, once again, to the window, through which the rest of the Weasleys’ conversation could be clearly heard. If the rumours were true—if the Boy-Who-Lived had really been raised with Muggles—this may be one of the first times he’d been around so many wizards, and probably the first he’d ever seen so many his own age. Phoenix decided to let him simply observe.

 

Phoenix was relieved when Mrs. Weasley forbid the twins to ask Harry about You-Know-Who.

“As if he needs reminding of that on his first day of school.”

The Hogwarts Express whistle sounded from somewhere up the platform and the Weasley boys climbed aboard, sticking their heads out of the window to give their mother a kiss. Phoenix paid little mind as the train began to move and Ginny, the youngest, detached herself from her mother’s grip and ran after the train. It was some time before she gave up her chase, and the Hogwarts Express made a sharp turn outside the station.

The compartment door slid open, revealing the tall, lanky first-year Weasley. He stared—first at Phoenix, then at Harry—and asked in a timid voice:

“Mind if I sit?” he nodded toward the seat beside Phoenix. “Everywhere else is full.”

“Of course,” she said, patting the empty space.

“My name’s Ron Weasley, by the way,” he mumbled, dragging his trunk behind him. “Who’re you?” He looked eagerly at Harry, then, perhaps realizing he’d been staring, turned to watch the houses passing by the window.

“Phoenix,” she said nonchalantly. “Phoenix Skimple. Both our dads work in the Ministry.”

Ron’s gaze fell once again on Harry’s forehead.

“Harry Potter.” He lifted his messy bangs, revealing the dark, lightning-bolt scar.

“I thought Fred and George were joking. So that’s where—where You-Know-Who…” his voice trailed off. The tips of his ears had turned a dark shade of red, despite the unnatural pale that had crept up through his cheeks and forehead. “Where he...you know.”

“Yeah,” Harry muttered, relaxing into the scarlet seat. He was smiling. Ron’s apparent admiration and wonderment was drawing him further from his shell, rather than forcing him to retreat; magic, it seemed, was his saving grace, not some looming force of abnormality to be feared and controlled. “But I don’t remember anything.”

Ron seemed unable to tear his eyes away from the legendary Boy-Who-Lived.

“Nothing?”

“Sometimes…” Harry narrowed his eyes, as if trying to recall a vague memory, and lowered his voice to nearly a whisper. “I think I remember a flash of green light, but that’s really all.”

Phoenix’s head spun around so quickly she was sure she heard the bones in her neck crack.

“Green light?” she asked eagerly.

But Harry had spoken over her, his own enthusiasm and interest shining through those brilliant green eyes.

“So, is everyone in your family a wizard?” he asked Ron, then turned to Phoenix. “Yours, too?”

“Oh, yeah,” said Phoenix. “Well, I’m adopted, so I’m not really sure. But I was raised by wizards.”

“You’re adopted?” Ron asked, stunned. “Dad never mentioned that. And my family are all wizards, except my mum’s second cousin. He’s an accountant. We don’t really talk about him.

And then, “Did you really go to live with Muggles?”

Harry blanched. Phoenix was sure she’d seen his bottom lip twitch into the shadow of a snarl.

“Yeah,” he said. “With my aunt and uncle and cousin.”

“What were they like? The Muggles.”

“Terrible,” Harry grumbled out the window. “I mean, not all of them. Just my family.”

 

Phoenix knew the Weasleys were not the richest family in the world, especially considering their pureblood status, but she’d never truly understood the gravity of their situation. Between Ron’s too-short secondhand robes, his fat, grey secondhand rat (which he produced from somewhere inside of his tattered jacket), and chipped secondhand wand, Phoenix was starting to appreciate that the only things she’d obtained from her siblings were their old textbooks.

Harry, too, had grown up without much money of his own. But it was the discrimination he suffered from his extended family that Phoenix most admired...or, more accurately, the strength he had to survive such an environment with what seemed a wicked sense of humor and a kind temperament. Of course, Phoenix had never been treated so badly by the Skimples, but she did empathize with the feeling of being thought ‘second best’ and, possibly, hated by those standing in as guardians.

More than an hour into their journey, Phoenix was pulled from her thoughts by a dimpled woman sliding the compartment door open.

“Anything off the cart, dears?” she asked, smiling.

Harry stood and neared the trolley with such enthusiasm that Phoenix was sure he’d have knocked her down if she’d been standing. She turned to Ron, who’d mumbled something about sandwiches, and held out her three Sickles.

“Dad gave me something for the ride,” she said, grinning at him with what she hoped was reassurance. “I’m really not hungry, so if you want to get something you can have it.”

Ron paled and chewed on his bottom lip, thinking, and shook his head. Harry returned, carrying in his arms a pile of colorful boxes and fresh pumpkin pasties, as Phoenix made her way to the cart. She purchased several Chocolate Frogs and two packages of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans, thanked the woman, and closed the compartment door behind her.

Harry had apparently offered Ron a few of his treats and the two sat munching on Chocolate Frogs and discussing the collectible cards found inside. A large pile of candy threatened to spill off the red-cushioned seat and onto the floor.

“Who’d you get?” Phoenix asked Harry, who was staring intently at his card.

Harry held it out so that Phoenix and Ron could both see the picture on the front—a smiling wizard with a crooked nose, silver hair, a long beard, and half-moon spectacles. Phoenix recognized the man at once.

“‘ _Albus Dumbledore: Currently headmaster of Hogwarts,’”_ he read the back of the card aloud. “ _‘Considered by many the greatest wizard of modern times, Dumbledore is particularly famous for his defeat of the Dark wizard Grindelwald in 1945, for the discovery of the twelve uses of dragon’s blood, and his work on alchemy with his partner, Nicholas Flamel. Professor Dumbledore enjoys chamber music and tenpin bowling.”_ Harry turned it over and gasped. “It’s gone!”

“Harry,” Phoenix stifled a laugh. “It’s enchanted. All pictures in our world are. They move.”

“What d’you mean?” Ron asked, face tinted red. “Muggle photographs don’t move?”

“No,” Harry said. He looked indignant at his own ignorance of the wizarding world. His eyes fell to an unopened Chocolate Frog on his lap. “They don’t move.”

“At all?” Ron screwed up his face. “ _Weird!_ ”

 

Phoenix spent most of the journey ignoring the gnawing in her stomach and listening to the two boys, who wasted an impossible amount of time discussing their Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans and daring each other to try the scarier-looking ones. Harry had just bitten into the corner of a grey bean (“Eurgh, it’s pepper.”) when his large, snowy owl ruffled her feathers and started clacking her beak determinedly at Hemera. When the latter did not respond, she gave an indignant hoot and shot Phoenix a heated glare.

Harry noticed the owl stirring beside him.

“Oh,” he said. “This is Hedwig.”

“Hemera.”

The tawny owl had just woken up—most likely due to Hedwig’s racket—and jumped to the edge of her cage, staring fixedly at the open bag of owl treats. Phoenix was so busy feeding and speaking to the excited bundle of feathers she hadn’t heard the compartment door open.

“Phoenix?” Harry asked loudly, pulling the girl from her one-sided conversation. He gestured toward a boy with a rounded face standing in the doorway. “Have you seen it?”

“Sorry, seen what?”

“My toad, Trevor” the boy frowned. His eyes were wet with forming tears and his voice began to waver. Phoenix shook her head. “Well, if you see him.” And he left the compartment, shoulders hunched.

“I feel so bad for him,” Phoenix whispered, careful not to be overheard.

“So do I,” piped up Ron. “If I brought a toad to school—”

“I _mean_ , I’m feel bad that he _lost_ his toad, Ron,” she reprimanded, smiling. Phoenix crossed her arms and turned back to her owl, who’d begun to chirp and flap her wings wildly for a treat.

“Yeah, it’s not like I can talk. I mean, I brought Scabbers, and he’s pretty useless.” He pulled a chipped wand out of his trunk and pointed it at Scabbers, who was snoozing on his lap. “George taught me a spell to turn him yellow. You want to see?”

He cleared his throat to begin, but the door opened once again to reveal a first-year girl with bushy, brown hair and large front teeth. She had apparently taken over the search for Neville’s toad, as the boy stood shivering behind her. She had a bossy voice and a superior attitude.

 

Phoenix didn’t like her.  

The girl asked Ron to show her the spell he was about to demonstrate on Scabbers, but criticized both the incantation _and_ his inability when the rat remained unchanged. Phoenix really didn’t like her.

She boasted her success at performing simple magic. Phoenix _definitely_ didn’t like her.

Phoenix didn’t even like her when she introduced herself as Muggle-born.

But the girl liked Phoenix.

She smiled and spoke to her as if there was no one else in the compartment but the two of them. She ranted about her Muggle parents— _“Well, you see, they’re dentists...that means they fix peoples’ teeth.”_ —while Phoenix stared, wide-eyed, and gaped. The girl spoke so fast that she was only able to catch every few words, but not once in the tirade did she hear the witch’s name.

After nearly two minutes, Harry spoke up.

‘Um, excuse me,” he said, clearing his throat. “What _is_ your name?”

“Oh,” she said, her eyes never leaving Phoenix. If she noticed Neville stalking off, uncomfortable and helpless, she showed no sign of it. “Of course. My name’s Hermione Granger.”

Phoenix turned to Harry and Ron, silently pleading for help. The boys faced each other and shrugged; Harry pointed to Ron, who sulked.

“Why don’t you two go find somewhere else to chat so Harry and I can get changed into our Hogwarts robes?”

“Oh, that’s good!” she said, eyes bright. “We’re starting to slow down; I think we’re going to be arriving soon.”

Phoenix glared at Ron as she passed. She endured another ten minutes of Hermione’s incessant babbling, her topics of conversation ranging from her Muggle friends, to the day she received her Hogwarts letter, to the exhausting amount of research she’d done as both an introduction into the wizarding world _and_ as background knowledge for their first-year classes.

“Of course,” she concluded, “I’ve memorized all our course books by heart. I just hope it will be enough.”

“I think it will,” Phoenix sighed. “I have two older siblings—”

“You _do_?” Hermione interrupted. Her eyes widened and her speech got impossibly faster. “What House are they in? Are they in the same House? Did they enjoy their first year? Did they say it was difficult? I’m hoping it’s not too difficult, of course, and I _did_ memorize all our books.”

Neville passed the two girls, but was careful not to get swept somehow into their conversation. When Hermione turned to face him, he quickly muttered, “Someone’s gotten into a fight, I think,” pointed toward Harry and Ron’s compartment, and hurried further up the train.

“ _Those_ two,” Hermione said, scowling as if she’d known them, for a long time, as troublemakers. “Let’s go see what they’re up to.”

She grabbed Phoenix by the wrist and pulled her through the corridor.

“Honestly,” she hissed as Draco Malfoy ran by. He was followed closely by two thickset first-year boys, one of whom was clutching at the knuckles of his right hand and howling in pain. “We haven’t even arrived yet.”

But the train was slowing down to a stop, and Hermione had barely opened the compartment door when a voice sounded through the Hogwarts Express, advising the passengers to change into their school robes and leave their luggage on the train when they descended to the platform. Both Harry and Ron grimaced upon seeing Hermione, but Phoenix was absolutely thrilled at finally having a moment devoid of the girl’s jarring attention.

The boys, of course, tried to shake Hermione as they exited the train. But the Muggle-born followed wherever Phoenix went, and Phoenix was nothing if not stubborn; she was determined to stick with Harry and Ron, who, in her mind, were her only real chance at avoiding Hermione’s gaze. Luckily, despite their short-lived friendship, the boys proved incredibly loyal. They tried their best to avoid the bushy brunette, for sure, but they remained glued to Phoenix’s opposite side as the first years filed awkwardly, ignorantly, across the Hogsmeade station.

 

At the end of the platform was a very tall, thick man with bushy black hair and a large, wild beard. Phoenix recognized him at once as the half-giant who’d accompanied Harry to Gringotts during her visit to Diagon Alley a month prior.

“Firs’ years,” he called in a booming voice over the din. “Firs’ years over here!”

She tried to listen in as he and Harry talked, but Hermione seemed more interested in discussing the upcoming Sorting Ceremony in an obnoxiously loud voice.

The first-year students followed the man, who Harry introduced as Hagrid (Phoenix was barely able to make this out over Hermione’s rambling), from the station and through a dense population of trees, which they navigated using what dim light was cast by the lamp Hagrid carried in his large, beefy hands and those few stars that peered through the cloudy, purple sky. Hermione finally fell silent, but dug herself impossibly closer to Phoenix’s right hip.

“It’s okay, Neville” she heard someone whisper as the boy sniffled. “We’ll find him.”

A great black lake, smooth as glass, opened up before the students. The crowd gave a low, collective ‘ooh’; in the distance, the Hogwarts castle loomed from its mountaintop perch, its many windows reflecting the sparkling stars like a beacon, as the first years were directed toward the shore.

“No more’n four to a boat!” Hagrid called, sitting alone in a small, wooden boat and pushing off to head the fleet.

Harry and Ron found an empty one and sat together. Phoenix, of course, took the spot directly behind them. She waved to Neville, who’d been walking at the boys’ left side, and was delighted when he seemed to perk up at the invitation.

Hermione either did not notice the sniffling boy, or didn’t care. She hurried after Phoenix and, ignoring Harry and Ron’s disgusted exchange, took the last empty seat beside her. Phoenix shook her head and shrugged.

“It’s alright,” Neville mumbled. “I’ll sit with Dean.”

Hagrid gave the command and the fleet moved forward, gliding weightlessly over the glassy water. Once at the base of the cliff, the students were lead through a dark passageway (“I think we’re underneath the school,” someone whispered to Phoenix’s left) and to the steps of a sort of small, wooden port. They each stepped out of their boats and onto the grassy lawn, over which the castle rose.

Hermione began rambling, once again, as Hagrid held up what seemed to be Neville’s lost toad. The crowd of first years filed up the lawn and toward the large, stone steps at the foot of the castle.

“Everyone here? You there, still got yer toad?”

Hagrid raised a gigantic fist and knocked three times on the castle door.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked it! Tell me what you think!
> 
> Quotes taken directly from :
> 
> The Hogwarts uniform and course book lists can be found on pages 66 and 67.  
> “Oh, Mum, can I go on the train and see him, Mum, oh please…” and “As if he needs reminding of that on his first day of school.” page 97.  
> “Everywhere else is full.” page 98.  
> “Anything off the cart, dears?” page 101.  
> “Firs’ years...Firs’ years over here!” and “No more’n four to a boat!” page 111.  
> “‘Everyone here? You there, still got yer toad?’ Hagrid raised a gigantic fist and knocked three times on the castle door.” page 112.


	7. The Sorting Hat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Phoenix sat a moment, the hat still clutched in her sweaty palms...She felt cheated somehow."
> 
> Phoenix is finally Sorted, her fate inevitably decided for her. Will she be a family legacy, or a probable Dark witch as Mrs. Skimple suspects? And what matters most: the Sorting Hat's decision, or her own?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternative title: "Hermione gets Sorted into Gryffindor and finally learns how to chill the f*ck out."

Later that night, Phoenix would realize that she remembered nothing of the grand entrance hall, nor of the hundreds of students who sat, wide-eyed with excitement, as she took her place on the stool to be Sorted; she hadn’t listened to McGonagall’s introduction, or to Hermione’s constant whispering; she hadn’t even noticed the silver Hufflepuff and Gryffindor ghosts as they passed through and above the other students, subjecting them to the strange, encompassing feeling of being plunged into a bucket of icy water.

Phoenix had ignored all gossip of the Sorting Ceremony, partly because some of the rumors were ridiculously inaccurate—like Ron’s theory, passed down from his twin brothers, that the ‘test’ was incredibly painful—and partly because the gnawing in her stomach had grown tremendously, leaving her feeling rather hollow and unsure. If she was Sorted into Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff, she would never outlive the shame and pressure that came from proving oneself a family legacy. On the other hand, Slytherin _was_ well known for producing Dark witches and wizards, and Mrs. Skimple did not need another reason to believe that her youngest daughter should be restricted from learning magic.

Before she knew what was happening, Hermione had grabbed Phoenix by the hand and dragged her along with the dense crowd, which, she found, had formed into a single-file line. She tucked herself between Ron and Hermione and followed the students ahead of her as they scuttled nervously along a wide, stone corridor and through a second set of oak doors.

Inside, the Great Hall was filled with hundreds of students, each of whom sat at one of four long, wooden tables that stretched the length of the room. At the head of the hall was a fifth table, perpendicular to the rest. Phoenix caught sight of Dumbledore, who perched delicately on the edge of his seat at the center of the teacher’s table, and offered him a timid smile as he waved (rather enthusiastically, though Phoenix) and went back to greeting his fellow professors.

The first years walked between two of the students’ tables and came to a halt in front of the professors.

“It’s bewitched to look like the sky outside,” Hermione whispered to Harry, who looked up, bewildered, at what appeared to be an opening in the ceiling. “I read about it in _Hogwarts: A History._ ”

“Love that book,” Phoenix said without thinking.

She heard Ron scoff and whisper to Harry, “Match made in heaven, those two.” Harry tried to disguise his laughter as a cough, but earned himself a deep, penetrating glare from Hermione, who’d apparently overheard.

“That’s _not_ funny,” she mumbled under her breath.

Phoenix had apparently dazed off again, because Ron gave her a sharp elbow to the ribs and gave a jerky nod toward McGonagall, who was now carrying a four-legged stool and a patched pointed wizard’s hat. She placed the stool before the first years and set the hat carefully on its seat.  Phoenix knew what was coming next; Marinia was intent on keeping the Sorting Hat’s act a secret, thinking it would be a wonderful surprise, but Jasper had sent home a very excited letter his first night at Hogwarts detailing the events of his year’s Sorting Ceremony.

For a moment, the Great Hall was completely silent. The first years gaped anxiously at the other students, who were staring just as fixedly, and eagerly, at the Sorting Hat. Phoenix watched as a large rip near the hat’s brim stretched wide, like a mouth, and it began to sing in a loud, raspy voice:

 

 _“Oh you may not think I'm pretty,_   
_But don't judge on what you see,_   
_I'll eat myself if you can find_ _  
_ A smarter hat than me.”

 

At the furthest table to the left, where the Gryffindors were situated, Fred and George were grinning ear-to-ear and bouncing silently in their seats to the tune of the Sorting Hat’s song. Their lips, too, were moving to the general rhythmn, but it was clear they did not know a single word. Or perhaps, Phoenix thought, they were altering the lyrics to something she couldn’t quite make out.

  
_“You can keep your bowlers black,_   
_Your top hats sleek and tall,_   
_For I'm the Hogwarts Sorting Hat_   
_And I can cap them all._   
_There's nothing hidden in your head_   
_The Sorting Hat can't see,_   
_So try me on and I will tell you_   
_Where you ought to be._   
_You might belong in Gryffindor,_   
_Where dwell the brave at heart,_   
_Their daring, nerve, and chivalry_ _  
_ Set Gryffindors apart;”

 

(“I _do_ hope I get Sorted into Gryffindor,” Hermione whispered. Ron shot her a sideways glance.)

  
_“You might belong in Hufflepuff,_   
_Where they are just and loyal,_   
_Those patient Hufflepuffs are true_   
_And unafraid of toil;_   
_Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,_   
_if you've a ready mind,_   
_Where those of wit and learning,_   
_Will always find their kind;_ _  
_ Or perhaps in Slytherin

_You'll make your real friends,”_

 

Phoenix watched Professor McGonagall as the hat sang. She was a thin woman, withered with experience, but strong; Phoenix knew from her older siblings that she was _not_ one to cross, that her age was no hinderance. At this moment, the Transfiguration professor was standing near the head of the line of first years, her eyes narrowed at the Weasley twins.

She wasn’t sure whether or not she’d imagined it, but Phoenix thought she’d seen the tiniest hint of a smile tug at the corner of McGonagall’s thin lips.

  
_“Those cunning folks use any means_   
_To achieve their ends._   
_So put me on! Don't be afraid!_   
_And don't get in a flap!_   
_You're in safe hands (though I have none)_ _  
_ For I'm a Thinking Cap!”

 

To her own surprise, Phoenix was able to pay attention to the entire song. The moment it ended, however, she was reminded of her anxiety; the pain in her stomach had now doubled, and she wrapped her dark rouge cloak tight around her torso to conceal her heavy breathing. Hermione, for once, seemed not to notice her, so transfixed was she on McGonagall. With a sweep of her emerald robes, the professor took her place beside the stool and read the names of students off a long scroll of thick, yellowish parchment.

Hannah Abbott stepped out of line upon hearing her name being called. She had blond pigtails, a round, pinkish face (not unlike Neville’s, Phoenix thought) and seemed to be cursing her parents for giving her a surname starting in A-B-B. Phoenix relaxed a bit. Skimple seemed so very, very far away, and, surely, there eager crowd would be tired, hungry, and bored by the time she was Sorted. There wouldn’t be so much pressure then; Hannah, unfortunately, did not have the same luxury. She pulled the Sorting Hat over her head, stiffened when it fell over her eyes, and sat on the stool.

“HUFFLEPUFF!” the mouth-like tear shouted. The girl stood, shaking, and was beckoned to the Hufflepuff House table by a sudden burst of claps and cheers. Some of the students patted the bench beside them, offering her a seat.

Phoenix caught very few of the names and Houses announced; she knew that the first few students to be Sorted were all Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs. Lavender Brown, who she’d seen conversing with a pair of twins on the train, was the first Gryffindor. Next came a mean-looking girl with dull features and thick limbs.

“Bet she’s a Slytherin,” Phoenix whispered to Ron, who agreed. The girl had barely sat down when the Sortinig Hat screamed “SLYTHERIN” and the right side of the room erupted in a fit of ugly, jaunting cheers and peels of laughter.

Phoenix smirked. “Called it.”

Another Hufflepuff, then a Gryffindor, and McGonagall said in a stern voice, “Granger, Hermione.”

“Good luck,” Phoenix said, but Hermione did not hear her. Her bushy brown hair bounced up and down as she hurried toward the professor, pulled the rim of the hat below her eyes, and practically jumped onto the stool.

“GRYFFINDOR!” the Sorting Hat shouted almost immediately.

“Aww. That’s too bad. I really wanted to be a Gryffindor until now.” Ron laughed and looked to Phoenix, but she did not join in.

Phoenix knew of the rivalry between the Gryffindor and Slytherin Houses, and, for some odd reason, she felt as if she’d just suffered a great loss. If she was going to be a Slytherin as she’d hoped, then she probably would never really get the _chance_ to be friends with Hermione. Part of her said this was a good thing, of course, as the Muggle-born _was_ extremely annoying. A little know-it-all. But another part of her had, somehow, liked being tortured by the constant babbling; how that came to be, she could not fathom, so she ignored it.

Phoenix was so entrenched in her own thoughts, she completely forgot to watch the Sorting taking place. Even when she heard the name _“Potter, Harry”_ and was pulled back to the scene before her, Phoenix was still half-encased in her own mind, devising the best way to get into her prefered House.

The Great Hall grew deathly quiet as Harry sat, fidgeting, on the stool. The Sorting Hat was taking his time with this decision.

 _No wonder_ , Phoenix thought. _He’s the Boy-Who-Lived. Can’t go putting him in the wrong House, now, can he?_

The rip above the brim opened up and the hat shouted “GRYFFINDOR!” before closing once again and becoming still. Harry tore the thing off his head, hurried to the left side of the hall, where the cheering seemed the loudest, and sat beside Percy _the Prefect._

Then came “Thomas, Dean” and Phoenix knew that she couldn’t be too far behind. She looked up and down the line of first years as if she knew their last names, as if she could surmise which of them could come before her. But she wasn’t so lucky; amid the screams from Gryffindor as Dean took his place beside Nearly Headless Nick, the House ghost, McGonagall unrolled her scroll and read the next name.

“Skimple, Asteria.”

Phoenix’s pace was calculated; anyone who didn’t know her would assume she was perfectly calm. She didn’t even think to search the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables for her siblings, who she’d later realize had probably tried, at some point during the evening, to get her attention.

She found herself sitting on the stool, the Sorting Hat in her hands, with no recollection of the time between Professor McGonagall calling her name and the hat—which still hovered an inch above her head—yelling in a proud, ringing voice:

“GRYFFINDOR!”

Phoenix sat a moment, the hat still clutched in her sweaty palms. She’d thought this through! She’d tell the hat not to put her in Ravenclaw, and maybe ask to be put specifically in Slytherin...but she hadn’t had the chance to do either! She felt cheated somehow.

Though surely Harry had received the loudest and most enthusiastic applause, Phoenix was overwhelmed by the sheer volume of her own. It seemed she was more popular at Hogwarts than she realized, but whether that was her own doing or the result of Marinia and Jasper’s relationships within the school, she was not certain. She walked over to the Gryffindor table and took the spot beside Hermione, who beamed and hugged her before she was able to swing both of her legs over the wooden bench.

“Oh, I _knew_ it,” Hermione squealed into her shoulder. “I knew you’d be a Gryffindor! You just had to be.”

Phoenix thought this curious, but decided not to ask. Instead, she pretended to focus on the next few first years being Sorted. Ron joined them a minute or two later, to no one’s surprise; Phoenix laughed as Fred and George patted their youngest brother on the back, causing him to blush. He sat down next to Harry, to Phoenix’s left, and smiled down at his empty plate.

“Good job, Ron,” Phoenix whispered, bumping his knee under the table. His smile grew impossibly wide. “Sixth Weasley son in Gryffindor. How does it feel?”

“Pretty good,” he said. He looked up at her, his eyes rounded, and whispered an inaudible, “Thanks.”

 

When the Sorting Ceremony ended, Albus Dumbledore stood at the center of the Head Table and offered a few words (“Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!”). The empty golden platters that lined the five tables were suddenly covered in enormous piles of food; second- through seventh-year students were already filling their own plates and goblets, but those who were newly-Sorted seemed unable to move. There was only a moment’s hesitation, however, before each one of them began to dig into the feast in front of them—some of them were so excited, it was like they’d never seen food before.

“I never had anything like this at the Dursleys’,” she heard Harry say to Ron.

To Phoenix’s delight, Hermione was engrossed in academic conversation with Percy, who beamed under the attention. The students to her left were now recounting their own backgrounds: Nearly Headless Nick was (unsurprisingly) bitter at being nearly-headless, as it seemed someone had done a poor job at decapitating him while he was alive, Seamus was half-blood— _“Mum didn’t tell him she was a witch ‘til after they were married. Bit of a nasty shock for him.”_ —and Neville, a pure-blood raised by his grandmother, had never really produced any great bouts of natural magic like most young wizards do.

Phoenix almost didn’t notice when Harry hissed in pain, clutching at the scar on his forehead.

“Are you alright?” she asked before either Ron or Hermione could say anything.

“Everything okay, Harry?” Percy called above the others.

“Yeah,” he said, calming down.

He gave a furious glance toward the Head Table and asked something about Professor Snape, who Phoenix knew—through Marinia and Jasper—as a very mean, very _bitter_ , Potions instructor. According to Jasper, he’d applied for the Defense Against the Dark Arts position for years, but Dumbledore was insistent on keeping him as Potions Master. Before she could explain this, however, Hermione grabbed her arm and gestured toward the opposite end of the hall; Percy was more than happy to demonstrate his knowledge to the legendary Boy-Who-Lived while the two girls between them gabbed.

“Look,” Hermione giggled. “That boy’s been watching you.”

At the Slytherin table, Draco Malfoy had just turned so suddenly he’d both knocked over his friend, Vincent Crabbe’s, goblet and plunged half his body through the silvery mist of the Slytherin ghost, the Bloody Barron. He kept his gaze fixed on one of the thickset boys across the table, but every now and then one of his bully friends would steal a glance in Phoenix’s direction.

“I can’t believe it,” Phoenix laughed, taking another sip of pumpkin juice.

“I _know_ ,” Hermione giggled again and leaned closer to Phoenix. “He’s one of the boys who got into a fight on the Hogwarts Express. Remember?”

 

Phoenix suddenly found herself exhausted. She barely listened to Dumbledore’s announcements—she made out something about Quidditch and the third-floor corridor (which she already knew she wasn’t allowed to enter)—and mumbled her way through the Hogwarts school song, of which the words were still blurry in her mind:

 

 _“Hogwarts, Hogwarts, Hoggy Warty Hogwarts,_   
_Teach us something please,_   
_Whether we be old and bald,_   
_Or young with scabby knees,_   
_Our heads could do with filling,_   
_With some interesting stuff,_   
_For now they're bare and full of air,_   
_Dead flies and bits of fluff,_   
_So teach us things worth knowing,_   
_Bring back what we've forgot,_   
_Just do your best, we'll do the rest,_ _  
_ And learn until our brains all rot.”

 

She paid more attention to Fred and George, who were singing loudly to the slow, morbid tune of a funeral march, than she did to the actual lyrics. Hermione, of course, didn’t find them funny at all, but Phoenix didn’t care. She followed Percy blindly as the Gryffindors exited the Great Hall and made their way to their designated Tower.

They arrived several minutes—and one short incident involving an obnoxious poltergeist and a bundle of walkingsticks—later at the portrait of a fat lady in a pink dress. Despite not consciously paying their journey any mind, Phoenix found herself able to correctly trace the route from the Great Hall to the Gryffindor Common Room without much trouble.

“Password?” the Fat Lady asked, looking down at Percy, who stood at the front of the crowd.

He puffed out his chest and said in a smooth, proud voice, “Capus Draconis.”

The portrait swung open to reveal a large, round hole, through which Phoenix could see a circular common room with a fireplace, several work tables, and a number of comfortable-looking scarlet armchairs.

“Is this place usually full?” she asked Fred, who was standing behind her in the line to go through the portrait hole. “It’d be awesome to study in here.”

“Yeah, usually,” he said. He offered her a hand as she lifted one leg up through the hole and clambered inside. He hopped in after her. “Empties out around midnight, though, so if you’re a night owl…”

Phoenix said good-night to Harry, Ron, and the twins, then felt the all-too-familiar tug on her arm as Hermione pulled her along: up the stairs on the right, into the first-year girls’ dormitories, and to the adjacent four-poster beds, at the foot of which their trunks already lay. Hemera’s cage sat empty beside her things.

“I can’t believe it,” Parvati, one of the Patil twins, kept saying over and over as she and Lavender Brown changed into their pajamas. “I mean, I really can’t believe it. _Gryffindor!_ And my sister’s in Ravenclaw.”

Fay Dunbar was the first to bed; she pulled the red curtain of her four-posters closed and mumbled her good-nights through the thick fabric. Parvati and Lavender followed shortly afterward.

“Well,” Hermione blushed and pulled her nightgown over her head. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Mhm,” Phoenix grunted. “’Night, Hermione.”

“’Night, Phoenix,” she said.

Phoenix tugged her curtain so that only a sliver of moonlight could be seen; it cut across the center of her bed, illuminating the weird curves and bends of her body as she struggled to find a comfortable position. With the exhaustion she’d felt earlier, Phoenix was surprised at how long it took her to actually fall asleep.

 

 

Phoenix knew she was dreaming, because Mrs. Skimple had _never_ hugged and kissed her like she did her own children.

“Oh, Phoenix, _Gryffindor!_ I knew you had it in you! Didn’t I, Castor?”

“You sure did, sweetheart.” He winked at Phoenix, who took a wary step backward.

In dreams, just as in real life, when things seemed the sweetest was usually when they took a turn for the worse. Phoenix knew something bad was going to happen, but the Skimple apartment was suddenly full of extended family, all congratulating her on her Sorting and praising her as if they’d always been so confident and proud. She stayed on the outskirts of the dream, hoping to avoid the eventual tragedy, but none came.

Instead, there was a flash of warm, green light and the Skimples all fell to the floor, some quivering in fear, others dead. Then a hand reached out from behind Phoenix (though she _knew_ she’d specifically backed herself into a wall only moments before) and grabbed her firmly by the shoulder.

“Cowards!” the woman said in a voice that was between a rebuke and a joyous laugh. Phoenix tried to turn around, but found herelf paralyzed. “She belongs in Slytherin. She _chose_ Slytherin, didn’t she?”

She woke up early the next morning, unable to recall the party, the guests, or the high, cold laughter, though her mind echoed that terrible, sobering truth: _She chose Slytherin. She belongs in Slytherin. She_ chose _Slytherin._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I had to take an awesome night and ruin it! I'm terrible. 
> 
> Please, comment what you thought! Anything you'd like me to address? 
> 
> Also, did anyone guess she'd be Sorted into Gryffindor, or did I successfully mislead you? I was kind of hoping it would be a surprise, but the friend I pitched the idea to thought that Gryffindor was a no-brainer. 
> 
> Anyway, I have some good news and some bad(ish) news...
> 
> The bad(ish) news is I just moved two weeks ago, and I currently cannot find my Harry Potter books. They are somewhere in a storage container. Therefore, I cannot continue to write until I have a) found them, or b) found my library card, so that I can borrow a copy. I like making sure that I have certain details (people's clothes, their lines, class dates, etc.) correct when I write. 
> 
> The good news is that, regardless, I should have Chapter 8 up by the beginning of next week. Because Chapter 8 and 9 work so cohesively in my story, I think I'm going to write them together, and then separate them into chapters after I'm done...which means that Chapter 9 will be available immediately after Chapter 8! 
> 
> Thank you guys for your awesome comments! I'd love to hear more from you so that I can make the story more of what you want!


	8. The Potions Master

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took so long to write! I have another week of finals, but next Sunday is the last day of my courses, so I'll be able to focus more on the fic then! 
> 
> As always, comments are appreciated. Thank you so much for sticking with me!

Phoenix was the first awake in the girls’ dormitory the next morning. At first, she refused to move, so nervous was she that Hermione would be awake and waiting for her just outside the scarlet curtains of her four-poster. But a quick glance through the tiny gap she’d left the night before told her that she was the first to stir. She changed into a set of black robes, grabbed _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_ from her trunk at the foot of her bed, and made her way down the spiral staircase to the bright red Gryffindor common room.

She found a squashy armchair by the fire (which was, inexplicably, lit) and began to read the book through for the third time. Though elementary, the text _did_ include some rather interesting details on magical creatures and Phoenix usually found herself unable to put the book down once she’d opened it. It was nearly an hour before another student joined her in the common room.

“Good morning,” Fred said, yawning behind a clenched fist. “How’d you sleep?”

“Good morning,” George repeated, doing the same.

“Fine.” Phoenix checked the current page number and closed the book on her lap. A sudden green light burst through her memory, but she ignored it. “What’re you doing up so early?”

“We should ask you the same question,” George smirked.

“Reading.”

“Aha.” One of the twins reached through the portrait hole and swung the Fat Lady’s painting ajar; the other stared down at an old, worn piece of parchment. From the way he was searching it—fluidly, in all four main directions, instead of jerkily from left to right—Phoenix gathered that he was reading off a map. “Going down to the kitchens before breakfast. Care to join us?”

“Before breakfast?” Phoenix laughed. “Are we even allowed—”

“O’ course not,” Fred interjected, folding the parchment and tucking it beneath his cloak. He lowered his voice and leaned in closer to George, who was standing awkwardly behind the portrait, as if he were afraid of swinging it open entirely. “Filch is still in his office.”

Phoenix had heard _a lot_ about Filch, the Hogwarts caretaker, from Marinia’s best friend. Tonks, who graduated at the end of the previous term, could spend hours complaining about how Filch’s nosy cat, Mrs. Norris, would sometimes follow her around the school and report her to Filch, who’d immediately come running and wheezing down the corridor behind the tabby brat, if Tonks and her friends stuck even one toe out of line.

 _Why_ the Weasley twins were avoiding Filch was obvious; the question was _how_.

“Maybe tomorrow.”

“Okay,” George said happily. “See you later, Phoenix.”

“Bye, Skimple,” Fred teased. Both boys disappeared from sight.

 

Phoenix wondered whether it was advisable to wait in the common room. On the one hand, she’d be the first to see who got up at what time and devise when she, Harry, and Ron could leave each morning for breakfast; on the other, Hermione could possibly find her first, which would most likely ruin her chances of speaking to the boys all morning. She wished there was some way to get Hermione to leave her alone short of hurting the Muggle-born’s feelings, but every scenario she imagined ended with Hermione either becoming incredibly angry with her or crying in the girls’ bathroom all through breakfast. In the end, she decided it was not worth dispiriting the girl on her very first day of classes.

Phoenix mounted the stairs to find most of the first-year girls awake and cheerful. Hermione, unsurprisingly, was fully dressed with her bag packed and wand gripped tight in her right hand, sitting eagerly on the edge of her bed. She sprang up the moment Phoenix was in sight and hugged her around the shoulders.

“Morning!” she said, taking a step backward. “How’d you sleep? I had a wonderful dream!”

“Good to know,” Parvati laughed to Lavender, who covered her mouth with her hands. “Up a bit early, Phoenix.”

“Couldn’t get back to sleep,” she fibbed, grabbing her bag and slinging it over one shoulder. As it was their first day of actual classes, and they hadn’t yet received their schedules, the bag was empty save for a quill, ink well, and a few scraps of parchment. “Anyone else starving?”

Lavender and Parvati took their time getting dressed, which did not surprise Phoenix in the slightest.

“Oh, you really don’t have to wait for us,” Lavender choked, turning away to hide her bubbling laughter. “The boys are probably _dying_ to see you two.”

 

Lavender wasn’t entirely wrong. Harry and Ron were absolutely thrilled to see Phoenix; they smiled and waved from across the common room and began weaving in and out of the thin, yawning crowd the moment her foot hit the landing. They were not, however, so excited to see Hermione only one step behind.

“Thought you’d have the sense to ditch her this morning,” Ron whispered as she lifted herself up into the portrait hole, making a point of ignoring his outstretched hand.

“Oh, Ron,” Phoenix teased, pulling Hermione up with both hands through the elevated passageway. “Don’t be such a Slytherin.”

Harry laughed awkwardly, Ron blushed a brilliant shade of scarlet, and Hermione, who’d already jumped down from the hole on the other side, wanted to know what was so funny.

“I’ll tell you later,” Phoenix said, watching the Fat Lady’s portrait swing shut behind her. “WATCH THAT STEP, NEVILLE, IT—”

But it was too late. The Gryffindor’s round, pink face blanched as he fell, wide-eyed, through one of the trick stairs, his leg sinking through the nonexistent stone all the way up to his knee.

“Vanishes…” Phoenix muttered the end of her sentence to no one. Harry and Ron, despite themselves, were bent over laughing; it took a moment for either of them to help poor Neville, who’d just wanted to start off his first day at Hogwarts on a nice, early note., but they were eventually able to maneuver him out of the hole and onto a higher step.

“Try to remember that one’s a trick, okay, Neville?” Phoenix said as she passed.

Neville nodded slowly and gripped his knees.

“Looks like he’s gonna be sick,” Harry whispered once they were out of earshot. Ron nodded in agreement.

“He’s probably afraid of heights.” Coming from Hermione, it sounded like a reprimand. Harry ignored her, staring straight at Phoenix as she continued, and Ron groaned. “We _were_ several stories up, and to fall from—”

“Can’t wait to see him get on a broomstick,” Ron interjected, revelling in the scolding glare Hermione shot him.

The group was rather quiet as they walked down towards the Great Hall. Every now and again, Harry and Ron would move as if to go down the wrong hallway, or take the first step onto the wrong staircase, and Phoenix would have to correct them.

“Really, Ronald,” Hermione scoffed.

“It’s not like _you_ know where you’re going,” he shot back, blanching. “You’re just following _her_.”

Between them, Harry and Phoenix made plans to visit the owlery in their free time.

“So, that’s where Hedwig will go when she’s not delivering a message?”

“Yep,” Phoenix said, leading them through the crowded entrance hall. Hermione grabbed her hand as they weaved in and out of the students lingering by the large door to the Great Hall and refused to let go until they’d all found their seats at the Gryffindor table. “It’s where all of them go to rest. She can visit you in the common room, though, if she wants to. Jasper said it doesn’t happen too often with his owl, but Igor isn’t very fond of him...or anyone, for that matter.”

“Jasper?” Harry and Hermione asked in unison.

“My brother,” her voice faded. She hadn’t spoken to her siblings the night before, hadn’t sent a letter to Mrs. Skimple to tell her the good news, hadn’t even _thought_ of her family since leaving them on the train. As she took her seat between Harry and Hermione, she was glad her back was to the other House tables. She didn’t want to know if Marinia or Jasper were hoping to see her. “He’s a sixth-year Ravenclaw.”

Phoenix reached forward and began to pile sausage, eggs, bacon, and toast hastily onto her plate. She tried to ignore the awful gnawing in her stomach as Hermione turned to search the tables behind them.

“You have a sister, too, don’t you?” she asked, looping one arm around Phoenix’s elbow. “What year is she?”

“Marinia’s a seventh year.” Phoenix poked her fork at the contents of her plate at random, skewering the ends of more than one breakfast sausage. “Hufflepuff.”

Ron mumbled incoherently through an overstuffed mouth. He tried to relay as much important wizarding information to Harry as possible—starting with his brothers’ favorite Hogwarts professors and ending, somehow, criticizing the school rule that no first-year students were allowed to bring their own broomstick—all while satisfying his healthy appetite and spraying little bits of toast and jam onto his over-sized plate. Harry’s head constantly whipped around, trying to absorb as much of Hogwarts as possible. Between Ron’s monologue, Phoenix’s helpful additions, and the twins’ sudden appearance halfway through the meal, there seemed no end to how much he could learn, and all before classes even began.

 

Phoenix continued to save her friends from some rather embarrassing close-calls; the boys had consistently strayed from the correct route to class and nearly ended up falling through a vanishing stair, forcing the door to the out-of-bounds third-floor corridor, and striding into the wrong classroom _all on the first morning._ Hermione, of course, would blush and act as if she’d known they were going the wrong way all along.

“Bloody likely,” Ron would mutter under his breath, causing the bushy-haired brunette to shift imperceptibly closer to Phoenix.

The classes themselves were something between impossibly exciting and incredibly dull. Phoenix was eager to learn how to properly do magic, but the lessons—at least, those with which they’d be starting off—seemed unchallenging.

Harry, of course, was relieved to find they’d be beginning each subject with something simple. Even Ron, who’d been surrounded by adult wizards all his life, and Hermione, who was keen on proving herself capable, seemed satisfied with textbook readings and turning matches into needles.

Though, unlike Hermione, Phoenix was not confident in her abilities—she had done some powerful things in her past, that was certain, but they’d all been spurred by adrenaline and fear, not discipline—she couldn’t help feeling some measure of disappointment when their professors inevitably assigned the most basic spells for practice. Her homework, she found, was accomplished rather quickly, which gave her an infuriating amount of free time. The first three days of class, Phoenix found herself hanging over Harry and Ron, feeding them the answers to their homework and fending off Hermione’s attempts to study alone together in the library.

She’d also tried several times to write a letter home, but each draft included the same vague, impersonal notes:

_I met Harry Potter. We’re both in Gryffindor House. Can you believe it?_

_Hemera is really enjoying her time in the owlery. I don’t think she’s ever been around so many owls._ And,

_The professors are so strange. Flitwick (Charms) fell off his desk when he reached Harry’s name during roll call and Quirrel (Defense Against the Dark Arts) keeps his turban stuffed with garlic to keep away a vengeful vampire...supposedly. You can’t really trust anything the Weasley twins tell you. We won’t have Quirrel’s class until Thursday._

Even to Phoenix, the sentiment sounded awkward and forced, so each version of the letter was crumpled up and tossed in the bin. She felt terrible; sending a genuine “I love you” to the people who raised you _shouldn’t be so damn hard._ Hermione did it with relative ease, and she’d heard Parvati and Lavender discussing letters they’d already received from home.

It didn’t help her guilt to see Marinia or Jasper in the Great Hall during meals, or pass them on her way to classes…and it definitely didn’t help when they’d smile sadly and wave like heartbroken pygmy puffs. She knew it was only a matter of time before they’d approach her, and she hoped that by then she’d have a sensible excuse as to why she’d been avoiding them.

 

*              A              *              S              *              B              *

 

Thursday rolled around far too quickly and the first-year Gryffindor’s enthusiasm reached a pinnacle. Their first Transfiguration lesson would take place that morning and Phoenix, who’d heard so much about the Deputy Headmistress from her siblings, was more excited to meet Professor McGonagall than any other teacher at Hogwarts. She practically dragged the boys through the halls—with Hermione in tow—and plopped down in a seat in the very front row.

“What’s so special about Transfiguration?” Harry asked, hoping to grasp some greater understanding of the wizarding world.

“McGonagall, that’s what,” Phoenix said. The smile on her face grew impossibly wide and she reached unnecessarily into her bag to hide the scarlet coloring creeping up her neck and cheeks. “She’s Head of Gryffindor House _and_ Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts.”

“Bit strict, though,” Ron piped up, claiming the seat to Harry’s left. “Fred and George got on her bad side the very first day. Say she’s not afraid to take points from her own House.”

“ _Huge_ fan of the House Quidditch team, though,” Phoenix added. "Really competitive, too."

“Why does her name sound so familiar?”

“Well, she’s the one who sends the Hogwarts invitations, isn’t she?” Hermione informed him, leaning closer to Phoenix in order to be heard.

Phoenix made as if to lean in the other direction and, once again, found that Hermione’s arm had been looped around her elbow. She tried to shrug it off as the rest of the first-year Gryffindors filed excitedly into the classroom. McGonagall was not far behind. She strode into the room, brandishing her wand with confidence and practiced poise, and magicked the door shut behind her.

She was a tall, stern woman in emerald robes. Like the night of the Sorting Ceremony, her black hair was combed up into a tight bun beneath her emerald pointed hat and her square spectacles sat low on the bridge of her nose. It was very clear that McGonagall was _not_ someone to cross.

With one sweeping glance, her students fell silent.

“Transfiguration is some of the most complex and dangerous magic you will learn at Hogwarts,” she said, her lips coming together to form a tight, thin line. Her eyes scanned the first years, landing momentarily on Neville, then Hermione, who beamed, Ron, who bore an undeniable resemblance to his trouble-making twin brothers, and finally Phoenix. “Anyone messing around in my class will leave and not come back. You have been warned.”

Everyone clapped and cheered as she transformed her desk into a pig and back again with a gentle flick of her wand. Despite their apparent excitement, a tangible wave of relief and disappointment rushed over the class as they realized they would _not_ be learning how to transfigure inanimate objects into living, breathing animals...at least, not for some time.

“For today,” McGonagall announced. She flicked her wand once more toward her desk and several piles of loose matches began to float across the room, dispensing one to each of the students. “You will be turning matches into sewing needles. Find a partner—” (At this, Hermione tightened her grip on Phoenix’s arm and shot the latter an endearing smile.) “—and I will be going around to see what progress you make.”

 

Unsurprisingly, Hermione was the first to successfully turn her match into a needle. It had taken her three tries to do it completely right, but each attempt brought some small transformation. Harry and Ron, on the other hand, couldn’t so much as change their matches’ color.

“I think I saw it move,” Phoenix teased, squinting down at Harry’s desk. She flicked the unaltered wood with her pinky finger and watched as it skid several centimeters toward Ron, who laughed and did the same to his own match.

It took a moment, but Harry finally understood that his friends were _not_ actually making fun of him. He rolled his eyes and began to laugh alongside them when…

“Mister Potter. Mister Weasley,” McGonagall said, nearing their desk with narrowed eyes. She examined their progress, or lack thereof, with a scrutinizing glare and turned to Phoenix, who had yet to even take out her wand. “Miss Skimple. Is something funny?”

“No, Professor,” the boys said in unison.

“Then I suggest you get to work,” she reprimanded. “Perhaps you should take Miss Granger’s example.”

Hermione beamed under the praise; she smiled and puffed out her chest, picking up her sewing needle to present to her professor. But McGonagall wasn’t paying her any mind.

“Miss Skimple,” she said. “Would you mind participating in class activities?”

McGonagall wasn’t mad. Disappointed, maybe, but not mad; Phoenix could see the subtle difference in the softness of her expression. It was as if she somehow understood Phoenix’s apprehensions and wanted to encourage the girl _without_ showing anything that could be perceived as favoritism.

So Phoenix drew her wand from inside her robes, tapped her match once with the wand tip, and anxiously averted her eyes.

 _Oh, look,_ she thought, glancing back at the rows behind her. _Seamus set fire to his desk again._

It took her several moments to realize that Ron, Harry, and Hermione had all turned to stare fixedly at her.

“Nyx,” Harry said. “Look.”

 

It was silver. It was silver and shiny and _pointy_ and it was an actual sewing needle. Phoenix couldn’t believe her eyes; she stared at the slim cut of metal on her desk, inspecting it for any obvious mistakes, and held the needle gingerly between her thumb and index finger.

When she looked up at her professor, the first thing she noticed was McGonagall’s smile. It was subtle, and incredibly cocky, but it was a smile nonetheless.

“You forgot to say the incantation.”

The girl nodded. She could feel the red spreading across her face and chest.

“Good work, Miss Skimple.”

Phoenix was sure she’d never be so proud of her abilities again.

 

*              A              *              S              *              B              *

 

“I am _not_ looking forward to double Potions,” Phoenix griped, portioning eggs onto hers and Hermione’s plates. The latter rested her cheek lazily against Phoenix’s shoulder and hummed in agreement.

Ron stuffed his crumpled schedule back into his book bag. His face was twisted into a strange, disgusted pucker, as if he’d just taken a large bite out of a lemon.

“ _I’m_ not looking forward to Potions with _Slytherin_. Malfoy’s enough of a git without being in our class.”

Hermione picked absentmindedly at the food on her plate and closed her eyes. She did not notice the boys’ stares, or the twins’ amused laughter. She didn’t even stir when Hedwig landed beside her goblet with a heavy _thud_.

“Long night?” Ron asked.

But Phoenix ignored him; she pet Hedwig between her wings, revelling in the owl’s contented coos and clicks. Beside her, Harry smoothed the letter on the edge of the table.

“Who’s it from?” Ron tried to peak over Harry’s shoulder.

“Hagrid,” Harry said, dropping the letter into his lap. He shoveled beans and toast into his mouth as Phoenix, Ron, and the twins discussed the Potions Master, Professor Snape. As there wasn’t really much to say that Phoenix didn’t already know—save some incredibly interesting, improbable rumours Fred and George enthusiastically shared—her attention quickly returned to the girl practically sleeping on her shoulder.

“Just…” Harry shifted awkwardly, letting his book bag drop from his shoulder onto the bench beside him.

“Shake her off,” Ron finished for him.

Phoenix shrugged, flushing when Hermione sat up suddenly, eyes wide, as if she’d just been woken from a nightmare. She wanted to apologize, but couldn’t find a way to phrase it that made sense.

 _Sorry I didn’t want you sleeping on me,_ was honest, if insensitive, but _Sorry, my arm was starting to fall asleep_ somehow felt worse. Phoenix didn’t want to hurt Hermione, but she didn’t necessarily want to encourage her, either. The two fell into an uncomfortable silence, and Phoenix was glad when the Gryffindors all stood to make their way to class.

 

Phoenix didn’t mind the dungeons. Harry seemed apprehensive, as if the cold, stone walls themselves were alive and watching him, and Ron complained the entire time that the Slytherins—whose dormitories, Phoenix knew, were in the dungeon, somewhere beneath the lake—looked too much at home. As they took their seats, each student scanned the shelves where Snape had stuffed pickled animals in tight, glass jars.

Snape himself was just as terrible as Jasper and Marinia had always made him seem. He was tall, intimidating, with greasy black hair and sallow skin. His eyes were sunken and black, as if he’d spent too much time in the dark, and he scanned the room with a cold, calculating glare. The effect was immediate; like McGonagall, Snape had the gift of keeping a class silent without effort. He found Harry relatively quickly, letting his gaze linger on the lightning scar, and began roll call.

Phoenix ignored him. She answered when he called her name, but did not pay attention to his introduction. He was monotone, uninteresting, and proud. It wasn’t until he raised his voice for the first time— _“Potter!”_ —that she began to pay him any mind.

_What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?_

Phoenix picked up her quill and began scribbling carelessly onto a piece of spare parchment.

_Where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?_

Another scribble.

_What is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?_

Phoenix dropped her quill. Hermione, beside her, was standing with her hand stretched as high above her head as her arm would allow.

“Sit down,” Phoenix whispered through gritted teeth, hoping Snape wouldn’t overhear. But his focus was on Harry, who, unfortunately, sat directly to Phoenix’s right.

He turned to the girls, glaring with beetle-black eyes, and snarled. The Slytherins coughed and snickered behind clenched fists. If Phoenix had been paying attention, she would have realized the professor was addressing Harry alone with his questions, not the entire class, and that he misinterpreted her scribbling as simply that.

“And _what_ ,” Snape spat, “is so important, you saw the need to write it down during my class, Miss Skimple?”

Phoenix furrowed her eyebrows. _Hadn’t it been obvious?_

“The answers.”

Now it was time for the Gryffindors to snicker; Snape paled, if possible, an even sicklier white and stood straighter in surprise. In his pause, Phoenix continued.

“' _Draught of the Living Death. Stone—antidote for most potions. Aconite.’_ ” She put an X beside each answer as she read them off.

“Correct,” Snape said, visibly impressed. “You’ve just earned yourself a point back for Gryffindor House.”

Phoenix didn’t know they’d lost a point in the first place, but she assumed it had something to do with Snape’s dislike for Harry and the latter’s habit of resorting to sass. She smirked, respectfully, and watched as Snape’s thin lips twisted into the shadow of a grin.

 

For the rest of the class, Snape allowed Phoenix a level of freedom even the Slytherins didn’t receive. Seeing as he was Head of Slytherin House, and had an undeniable reputation for favoritism, it was incredible for Phoenix to believe that she may somehow be Snape’s favorite student. He traveled the room, stalking from one simmering potion to the next, as the class worked in pairs to create a cure for boils. Everyone had been on the tail end of some criticism or correction, but the professor merely glanced in Phoenix’s cauldron, nodded, and continued on to the next pair of students.

“Well, I’m glad he likes at least _one_ of us,” Harry whined, climbing the stairs from the dungeon. “I can’t believe I lost two points for Gryffindor.”

“Harry,” Hermione said, trying to console him. “He hates Gryffindor. It isn’t your fault. Plus, Phoenix made up one of the points.”

“Thanks for that,” he droned, attempting to sound grateful.

“At least we don’t have to deal with him for another week,” Ron said. “Oh, can I go and see Hagrid with you?”

At that, Harry seemed to brighten.

“Sure. You want to come, too, Nyx?”

She wanted to meet the half-giant as much as Ron, but figured Harry could use a break. Not only did he seem somewhat sore with Phoenix, but if she went, then that surely meant Hermione would follow, and neither of the boys really wanted to deal with the know-it-all for an entire afternoon. Seeing her all day during classes was enough.

“I think I’m going to study in the library,” she said, avoiding Hermione’s gaze. “I could really use some practice.”

Harry and Ron said good-bye, taking the staircase up to Gryffindor Tower, while the girls turned down a separate corridor. Phoenix had never actually been to the library, but she trusted Hermione to lead them there without getting lost and began to drift off, wondering, for the first time since the start of classes, whether she belonged among the good and the brave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Transfiguration is some of the most complex and dangerous magic you will learn at Hogwarts,” and “Anyone messing around in my class will leave and not come back. You have been warned.” page 134.  
> “Like McGonagall, Snape had the gift of keeping a class silent without effort” pages 136 and 137.  
> “What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?” and “Where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?” page 137.  
> “What is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?” page 138.


	9. The Midnight Duel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long, but I have been absolutely exhausted! That being said, it's not the greatest thing I've ever written, but I can always edit it later.
> 
> Hope you enjoy, and please leave a comment!

Phoenix had noticed Draco Malfoy. He was a white-blond, slimy git: a rich pureblood with _far_ too much pride in his House. In this way, she noted, he sort of resembled her own adoptive parents...but with money. Lots and lots of money. He’d probably spent more Galleons on one set of robes than Phoenix had spent on her entire trip to Diagon Alley that summer.

She watched her tongue, of course, around Harry, who’d recently inherited an entire Gringotts vault full of gold from his parents—and who, despite his history of seeming poverty, got embarrassed any time someone brought up financial struggle—but she had absolutely no qualms complaining loudly in the Gryffindor common room to Ron and whoever else would listen about how incredibly _frustrating_ it was knowing someone so foul could enjoy so much luxury. Malfoy received an owl _everyday_ from home. Whether it was a box of sweets or a simple letter, he was always sure to smirk toward those watching from the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall.

“Stop staring,” Hermione hissed to Phoenix one morning as they sauntered into breakfast. “He watches you, you know. For goodness’ sake, _stop staring.”_

And Phoenix did, if only because Ron had, for some reason, decided to bring her into an argument he was having with another first-year Gryffindor, Dean Thomas.

“Nyx,” Ron asked as she took the seat across from him, Hermione on her right. “Your sister knows about Muggle sports, right?”

She opened her mouth to respond, but he continued.

“I need you to explain to Dean why soccer is downright stupid. I mean, they don’t even use _brooms_.”

“Muggles don’t fly, Ron,” Phoenix said, her voice monotone. She piled food onto Hermione’s plate as the latter watched and waited, leaning forward on her elbows.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell him!” Dean slammed his hands down on the table, upsetting the silverware. “But he won’t listen to me!”

“HOW CAN A SPORT POSSIBLY BE ANY GOOD IF THE PLAYERS CAN’T EVEN _FLY?_ ”

“Harry,” Phoenix called calmly over the din. “Would you please control your roommate?”

Harry smiled, but shrugged his shoulders in defeat.

“I found him poking Dean’s West Ham poster last night _again_ ,” he teased. “I’m afraid he’s beyond our help, Asteria.”

“We may need to stage an intervention, Harold.”

“Muggle-ify him, more like.”

“Give him a proper education. Let’s send a letter to his dad. I’m sure he’d love to—”

“Hello! I’m right here!” Ron interrupted, exasperated. “No need to talk about me as if—”

“Did you hear something, Nyx?” Harry asked, careful not to look toward Ron on his left. “I could have sworn it sounded like…”

“A pureblood?” Phoenix offered. By now, she was barely able to contain her laughter.

“Oh, yes,” said Harry, his voice dripping in false conceit. “That’s it. It sounded like a pureblood.”

Ron stayed bitter for most of the morning, which was just as well. A new post on the board in the Gryffindor common room had been put up some time during the night announcing the start of first years’ flying lessons that upcoming Thursday...a class, to their chagrin, they would be sharing with Slytherin. So Ron was not the only one in a foul mood. Even Hermione, who’d been the only Gryffindor to enjoy Potions with the Slytherins—other than (and probably _becuase of_ ) Phoenix, of course—fell into an aggravated silence during breakfast as the entire table buzzed with mutual complaints. She was grateful to see Hemera circling overhead.

“Phoenix,” Hermione said, tugging on the other girl’s dark rouge sleeve. “Look, your owl.”

The tawny ball of fluff landed excitedly on the edge of Phoenix’s plate, gave a proud, high-pitched hoot, and puffed out her feathers. After a moment’s hesitation, allowing Phoenix to pat her head and underneath her chin, she displayed her left leg, to which a thin roll of parchment had been tied.

“A letter from home,” Phoenix muttered.

Hermione knew better than to prod. She leaned over her breakfast, hiding her face behind her shifting hair as Phoenix, beside her, untied the letter and began to read.

 

Immediately, Phoenix noticed that the message was comprised of two different parts; the first, in Mrs. Skimple’s neat hand, read:

 

_Asteria,_

_We’ve given you a week. No one has heard from you. Even Marinia and Jasper admit they have no idea what’s been going on. We would appreciate it if you’d send word._

 

The second was unmistakably scribbled in Mr. Skimple’s untidy scrawl.

 

_We’re just worried, sweetheart. That’s all._

 

_Your mother has already started painting your room scarlet and gold. The main walls are going to be red, of course, and the trim will be gold. Your wooden bookcase, night stand, and bed frame will all be varnished, too, and we’re still figuring out what to do for the bathroom...I know it’s not the greatest room for Gryffindor colors, so we can discuss what to do with it when you come home for Christmas._

 

_Now, she’s gotten a tad excited, Asteria, and she’s working rather fast. If you want anything changed, it’s better you send word now than later._

 

_We’re so proud of you, our little Gryffindor!_

_Love,_

_Mom and Dad_

 

Phoenix tucked the letter in an inner pocket of her cloak and stood to leave. Hemera jumped onto her shoulder, whistling sweetly as they maneuvered through the crowded Entrance Hall and out onto the lawn. Hermione, for once, did not follow.

 

*              A              *              S              *             B              *

 

Ever since the post about flying lessons earlier that week, the Gryffidor common room had been full of chattering first years. Those who had been raised in wizard households took the opportunity to brag about their prowess on a broomstick; Muggle-borns were split between their undeniable excitement at the prospect of flying and a gnawing fear of falling off their brooms in front of the Slytherins. But Hermione and Neville Longbottom were especially worried.

“Gran never let me on a broom, really,” he said Wednesday evening, sinking further into his squashy armchair.

Ron snickered and whispered to Harry, “Yeah, I wonder why.”

Hermione had buried her nose in _Quidditch Through the Ages_ and hadn’t surfaced in hours. This was a situation in which all the theory in the world could not prepare her and Phoenix couldn’t help but feel sorry for her; somehow, the brightest witch in their year was helpless, and it showed.

 

Mr. and Mrs. Skimple had never let Phoenix on a broomstick before, but she’d had plenty of practice playing Quidditch with Tonks and her friends (she was a damn good Seeker, Tonks said, but was usually made to play Keeper by her brother, who preferred to be Seeker himself). So while she was far from being an expert, she wasn’t so bad off as the Muggle-borns in their class. Unlike Ron and Seamus, however, she refused to flaunt her magical upbringing. Instead, she said good-night early to the boys and headed up to the girls’ dormitory, where she perched on the edge of her four-poster, wand-tip lit, and wrote a response to her parents’ letter on her lap.

It took her seven tries—and, yes, of _course_ she counted—to find a wording that was even _somewhat_ acceptable, but it would have to do. If she didn’t send a response within the week, she knew, she’d receive yet another letter. Eventually Marinia and Jasper would be asked to step in, and then there’d be no avoiding them.

 

_Hi, Mom,_

_Hi, Papa,_

 

 _I’m sorry it’s taken so long to write, but I’m having so much fun here! I met Harry Potter—_ the _Harry Potter—and we’ve become really close. I’m also friends with Ron, Fred, and George Weasley and a Muggle-born named Hermione Granger. All Gryffindors, of course; I haven’t had much time to socialize outside of our House, what with all our start-of-term homework._

 

She hoped they wouldn’t see through that little white lie.

 

_I wish you could see how well I’m doing in classes. Professor McGonagall said I’m a natural at Transfiguration and Professor Snape seems to really like me. I don’t like Potions class...like Marinia and Jasper, I think it’s sort of, well, depressing, especially since we share that class with Slytherin...but the teacher and I get along, so I think I’ll do well enough._

 

_Professor Flitwick doesn’t come up to my shoulder, but he’s kind as anything. He fell off the stack of books he was using to look over his desk when he read off Harry’s name the first day of Charms! I can see why Marinia likes the class so much; Flitwick is the sort of professor I can see helping his students through N.E.W.T.s, which must be a great change from when she had Snape._

 

_Sprout and Sinistra are both nice, too, so I’m enjoying their classes (Herbology and Astronomy, if you don’t recall) and we’re going to be starting flying lessons tomorrow with Madam Hooch. I hear she’s really strict, but not so bad as McGonagall._

 

 _The only boring classes are History of Magic and Defense Against the Dark Arts, which is a shame. I was_ so _looking forward to a proper DADA course, but Professor Quirrell seems like he’s more apt to teach from a textbook than give his students experience. I don’t mind that he stutters, or that he seems unnaturally afraid of every little thing (someone sneezed the other day and I thought he was going to have a heart attack!)...I don’t even mind the funny smell that comes from his turban (Fred and George say he stuffs garlic in there to keep away a vengeful vampire, but that’s all tosh, I think); if he let us use our wands to practice defensive spells, I’d let a lot of things slide._

 

_Of course, he says we will get to use magic some time in his class. That’s just common sense. I guess I’m just disappointed that it won’t be more hands-on. Harry seems a little relieved that the classes aren’t too extreme, of course. All Muggle-borns are. (Okay, technically Harry isn’t Muggle-born, but with his upbringing he’s as good as.)_

 

_Hemera is so happy to finally get some time to fly. She was really bored at the apartment, what with no letters to deliver and Avery being gone on long journeys most of the time. She really loves those owl treats Jasper gave me to try._

 

_Love you so much!_

_Nyx_

 

_P.S._

_The plans for my bedroom sound fantastic. I was thinking, for the bathroom, we could leave the scarlet out of the equation and simply do some gold fixtures (sink, shower head, etc.)...maybe a red shower curtain or tiles or something. But I agree, it’s not the best room for Gryffindor colors._

 

It was nearly eleven o’clock when she’d finished, and she resolved to head to the owlery first thing in the morning to send it. Of course, in doing this she’d miss a bit of breakfast, which turned out to be a mistake.

 

*              A              *              S              *              B              *

 

“I think he likes you,” Hermione mumbled into Phoenix’s shoulder as they descended the sloping, green lawns toward the forbidden forest.

“Who?” Phoenix asked.

“Malfoy. He’s always watching you and acting like he’s _not_ watching you,” she explained matter-of-factly, wrapping her arms tighter around the other girl’s elbow as they came to a halt.

Before them were twenty or so broomsticks laying in two parallel lines. The Slytherin students were all standing on the opposite side, closest to the forbidden forest, each beside an old, weather- and time-beaten broom. As Phoenix took her place to Harry’s right, Draco Malfoy and his thickset thugs, Crabbe and Goyle, shifted to take the spots directly across from her, forcing Pansy Parkinson and two other girls Phoenix didn’t recognize to move down the line.

While his juvenile body guards cracked their knuckles threateningly— _needlessly_ —at Harry and Ron, Malfoy fixed Phoenix with a cocky grin.

“Such a shame, don’t you think?”

“What are you talking about, Malfoy?” Phoenix took the bait and Draco’s eyes danced with malice, his grin spread impossibly wide.

“Well, you’re the first non-Slytherin in the family for generations,” he taunted. “If I were you, I’d be afraid of disappointing my parents. Oh, that’s right, you don’t have any, do you?”

There were a lot of things Phoenix wanted to say, to ask, but she knew it was all just a bid. _How could Draco possibly know who her parents were?_ It was all an act...it had to be.

“I think you’re reading this wrong,” Phoenix whispered to Hermione, shrugging the latter off her arm.

 

Madam Hooch appeared, to the Gryffindors’ relief. She was slightly shorter than McGonagall, with short, gray hair and bright yellow eyes. She reminded Phoenix a bit of a hawk—her nose was even pinched slightly, like a beak.

“Stick out your right hand over your broom,” she commanded in a loud, sweeping voice. “And say ‘Up!’”

The class did as told; Phoenix’s broom lifted carefully off the ground and found her hand, but she was one of the few to succeed on her first try. Looking around, only Harry, Seamus, and Draco seemed to be having any luck...all the rest, including Hermione, had to continue shouting at their broomsticks with increasing volume and frustration. Neville could be heard pleading with his at the end of the Gryffindor line.

Once everyone had accomplished their first task, Madam Hooch taught them all how to properly mount their brooms and walked around, correcting their grips; Phoenix, Harry, and Ron were delighted when she told Malfoy he’d been doing it wrong for years.

“Now, when I blow my whistle, you kick off from the ground, hard,” she said, eyes darting from one shaky Muggle-born to the next. She counted down, her whistle held out just beyond her lips, when Longbottom suddenly shot into the air.

Phoenix had never seen someone look more uncomfortable on a broom. While he rose higher and higher, his pale face painted a sickly white, the Slytherins below began to whoop and applaud mockingly.

“Stop it!” Hermione shouted, her own face scarlet. “It’s not funny! He could really get hurt!”

As if on cue, Neville slipped sideways off of his broomstick and fell twenty feet—perhaps more—before hitting the ground with a dull _thud_. Phoenix watched as his broom drifted rather lazily toward the forbidden forest.

Hermione, unsurprisingly, had wound her way back around Phoenix’s right arm, leaning into the younger girl’s shoulder and breathing sharp, quiet _oh no_ ’s as Madam Hooch inspected Neville for any injuries.

“He’s going to be fine,” Phoenix assured her, but Hermine’s grip did not relax until Hooch had the Gryffindor boy, sobbing, on his feet and limping toward the castle. “See. He’ll be alright.”

“I don’t want to fly.” Her voice was a whimper, so low that Phoenix had to strain to hear it and, even then, she was not entirely sure she had heard right. Hermione, ever confident, the _know-it-all_ , was afraid of something so basic as flying? Phoenix didn’t know how to respond, and, thankfully, she didn’t have to. With Hooch gone, the Slytherins were taking the opportunity to provoke...at Neville’s expense, of course.

But Phoenix was paying them no mind. In the grass, not far from where the boy had fallen, was a small, glass ball.

“What do you think that is?” Phoenix asked Harry.

“What _what_ is? I don’t see—”

But Malfoy had been listening. He stalked across the lawn, following Phoenix’s line of sight, and picked the ball out of the rippling grass with a triumphant smirk.

“The great lump forgot his Remembrall,” he snickered, holding it up to the light. “I wonder when he’ll remember to ask for it back.”

The next few moments were so predictable, Phoenix couldn’t help but roll her eyes: Harry, stupidly provoked by Malfoy’s childish taunting, made as if to chase the Slytherin, who mounted the broom still clutched in his left hand and took off towards the sky; he paused a moment, searching for his own broomstick, and pushed off from the ground himself.

“Potter, you’re being an idiot!” Phoenix shouted, producing her wand from inside her black school robes. “I’ll give you three seconds, the both of you, before I knock you off your brooms!”

Draco laughed nastily, but Harry’s eyes widened beneath his spectacles.

“She isn’t bluffing, Malfoy.”

“I’d like to see you try,” the Slytherin hissed. He then turned to Harry, who was hovering only several feet away, and held the Remembrall above his head. “Come get it if you can, Potter.”

Harry was a natural flyer, Phoenix would give him that; as Draco darted around the perimeter of the lawn, narrowly missing the edge of the forest, the Gryffindor flew above him, leaving just enough distance between them to keep them from crashing into one another. It was thrilling to watch, but Hermione’s constant nagging and crying— _“Hooch said she’d expel us if she caught any of us flying! Think of the points they’ll lose Gryffindor!”_ —was enough to ruin any race. Phoenix had to do something, even if it meant stopping Harry from giving Malfoy a well-deserved kick off his high broom.

“Fine, Mione, shut it!” Phoenix said, raising her wand. “Just give me a second.”

The boys had made it another lap around the lawn and were perched nearly fifty feet above the crowd of cheering Gryffindors when—“ACCIO!”—the glass ball came zooming from Malfoy’s hand toward Phoenix. While it took Draco a moment to register what had happened, Harry dove after the Remembrall instinctively.

“Oh, no!” Hermione shouted, hiding her face in her hands.

The same thought had gone through Phoenix’s mind. It was Harry’s first time on a broom and there was no way he would be able to pull up fast enough to avoid crashing into Phoenix. She ducked and shut her eyes tight, waiting for the blow...but several long seconds passed and all she’d felt was a sudden warm breeze.

“Phoenix, are you okay?” Hermione asked, grabbing her friend by the shoulder. “Did he hit you?”

“Of course he didn’t hit her!” From what Phoenix could tell, Ron was standing over her, too. She felt another, larger hand on her opposite shoulder and the two first years worked to pull her to her feet. “You’re alright, aren’t you, Nyx?”

Phoenix took a long breath, opened her eyes slowly, and mumbled in a timid voice, “I think so.”

“MISS SKIMPLE!” It was McGonagall.

“Nope, no, definitely _not_ alright now.”

Professor McGonagall rushed down the lawn, the skirt of her emerald robes clenched tightly in her fist, and shot Draco a chilling glare as he landed in the grass behind the other Slytherin students; fortunately for Malfoy, she did not consider him further.

“Miss Skimple,” she said once she’d reached the class. “Are you hurt?”

“No, Professor,” Phoenix muttered. “Just a bit... _shocked_ is all.”

“Well, that is understandable.” She paused. “And do you still have that...whatever it was?”

Phoenix looked down at the thing still clutched in her hand, too embarrassed to admit she hadn't a clue as to what it could be, and noticed, to her surprise, that the clear glass ball suddenly glowed scarlet.

“Remembrall,” Hermione offered, blushing. “It’s Neville’s Remembrall. His grandmother sent it to him this morning.”

“It’s here, Professor.”

Phoenix would have sworn she’d seen the faintest hint of a smirk tug at the corner of the older witch’s lips.

“Good,” McGonagall said, turning finally to Harry. “You and Potter will both follow me inside.”

 

“Am I in trouble?” Phoenix asked, perched awkwardly on the edge of her chair.

“No.”

“Then why am I here?”

Professor McGonagall was sitting rather rigidly herself; she looked, if possible, dissheveled, with stray black hairs poking out of her tight bun at odd angles. Her eyes kept darting from one object to the next, never settling on anything for very long, and her fingers thrummed ceaselessly on the surface of her desk. She seemed nervous, but why?

“Are you alright, Professor?”

“That could have ended quite catastrophically.” Her voice was steel, her features pulled into tight, straight lines and sharp angles, but the younger witch saw something beneath the strong façade. It was the same look Mr. and Mrs. Skimple had whenever Marinia or Jasper were hurt. “You were very lucky that Potter was able to fly so well as he did.”

Phoenix nodded.

“Are you certain you weren’t hurt?”

She nodded again, eyes trained on the floor.

“Potter has been made Seeker of the Gryffindor Quidditch team,” McGonagall explained matter-of-factly. “He is not going to be punished, though I suppose I’ll be hearing about this from Madam Hooch.”

At that, the young witch dared smirk. She looked up at her professor, brown eyes glassy with unshed tears, and asked, “So I didn’t get him expelled?”

“If Mr. Potter had been expelled,” McGonagall said, “it would have been his own doing, not yours.”

 

*              A              *              S              *              B              *

 

Dinner came and went rather uneventfully. Sure, Draco Malfoy had challenged Harry to a duel. And, yes, Harry had accepted, but there was no way Phoenix was going to get herself involved after what had happened earlier.

“You were lucky enough to escape expulsion once today,” she quipped, standing to leave the Great Hall. “What do you think will save you this time if you’re caught?”

“You’re agreeing with _her_ now?” Ron whined.

“Well she’s right, isn’t she?”

At this, Hermione shot the boys a smug _told-you-so_ grin and followed Phoenix up to Gryffindor Tower, where the two sat, for the remainder of the evening, writing an essay for Charms on the edge of Hermione’s bed—Phoenix, of course, was careful to be on her own four-poster by the time Parvati and Lavender arrived in the dormitory several hours later. They said good-night to the girls and closed their scarlet curtains early.

 

Phoenix pretended not to notice when Hermione left the room later that night. She knew the know-it-all would _never_ allow Harry and Ron to lose so many House points without a fight, but the midnight duel was inevitable. The boys were just as stubborn as Hermione and, though they were clearly outmatched in a fair fight, the latter would never do something that was against the school rules; this limited her reign on them considerably. She would argue, stomp away in frustration, and be back in the dormitory within a matter of minutes.

So when nearly an hour passed and the Gryffindor girl was still out of bed, Phoenix slipped down the spiral staircase to search for her in the common room. The fireplace, as always, was lit, but the armchairs and study tables were cast in eerie, blood red shadow.

“Hermione?” she whispered, eyes scanning the darkness. “Are you here?”

No sign of movement, no sound. She walked from chair to chair, checking to see if Hermione had fallen asleep while waiting for the boys to appear, and found nothing.

 _Maybe she’s in the bathroom_ , Phoenix thought as she turned to make her way back up the stairs.

Just then, the Fat Lady’s painting swung open and four frightened-looking students hurried through the portrait hole.

“Are you guys okay?” Phoenix asked, feigning disinterest. “Didn’t get caught, did you?”

To her surprise, Neville jumped down into the common room, shaking and stuttering, his skin blanched. Hermione was next, then Harry and Ron. They each found an armchair by the fire in silence; Neville looked like he was going to throw up.

“What happened?” Phoenix tried again several minutes later, after giving them time to breathe.

“Malfoy tricked them.”

“Oh, so you start off with _that_ ,” Ron spat. “Forget the three-headed dog!”

“The _what?_ ”

“The out-of-bounds corridor on the third floor,” Harry explained. “There’s a three-headed dog. We found it while hiding from Filch.”

“It’s huge,” Neville sputtered. “I thought it was going to kill us all.”

“Why were you hiding from—” she began. Ron shot her a glare. “Never mind.”

“It was guarding something.”

Silence.

Neville and Ron, as always, seemed utterly confused, but Phoenix noted the sudden realization that flickered through Harry’s green eyes.

“What do you mean, guarding something?” Phoenix asked, her scrutinizing gaze trained on Harry.

“It was standing on a trapdoor,” Hermione answered.

Neville excused himself, bent double as he made his way sluggishly up the staircase toward the boys’ dormitories, while the four friends lingered. Hermione and Ron both soon began to yawn.

“We need to talk,” Harry said at last.

Phoenix nodded.

“In the morning.” And with that, she led Hermione up to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter was pretty uneventful, and it definitely won't be the first time Phoenix misses out on an adventure...but I promise she'll have some of her own, with and without the Golden Trio!
> 
> Also, I left a comment on Chapter 8 about posting another fic...I know not everyone reads the comments, so I thought I'd say it here, too: I'm willing to post the fanfic that inspired Phoenix's character if I get enough requests (originally, I also said I'd do it if I hit 50 kudos, but that sounds a little self-serving). I'll update that story whenever I'm taking too long to update this one. :)
> 
> Quotes directly from the book:
> 
> “Stick out your right hand over your broom...and say ‘Up!’” “Harry and Ron were delighted when she told Malfoy he’d been doing it wrong for years,” and “Now, when I blow my whistle, you kick off from the ground, hard.” page 146.


	10. Halloween

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long! I had some motivation to work on my original stuff, which hasn't happened in a while, and I got sidetracked. I promise my next few updates will be a lot quicker!

Phoenix met Harry and Ron in the Gryffindor common room an hour earlier than usual. Ron, whose head kept leaning dangerously toward the cushiony sides of his armchair, looked as if he’d been dragged out of bed mid-dream. Harry, on the other hand, was alert and anxious.

“Alright, so Hagrid took me to an empty vault at Gringotts on my birthday,” he began before Phoenix even had time to take a seat. His words were rushed, but precise, as if he’d been practicing all night in his head and couldn’t wait to let them burst out. “There was nothing but a little package, maybe two inches thick. Then when we went to visit him—”

“When you and Ron visited Hagrid’s hut the first week of school?” Phoenix clarified.

“ _Yes_ ,” Harry huffed impatiently, ignoring the gentle snore that issued from the chair beside him. “There was a _Daily Prophet_ article on his table. It said that there’d been a break-in at Gringotts the _very same day_ he’d taken _me_ there.”

“I remember that,” Phoenix said. “Jasper mentioned it a while back. It was the day I went to the bank with my dad. I saw _you_ there, now that I think about it.”

She squinted and stared down at the floor, as if trying to somehow read the memory in the fibers of the scarlet carpet.

“But, Harry,” she continued, her voice wavering slightly. “I’m almost certain they said there was nothing missing. The vault—”

“ _‘Had in fact been emptied the same day.’_ Exactly. And Hagrid kept mentioning how he was on official Hogwarts business.”

There was a short pause in which the two simply stared at one another.

“You think that whatever was in that vault is in the school _right now_.” It was not a question.

“Yes,” Harry said, nodding.

“And you think that the three-headed dog is guarding it.”

He nodded again.

Just then, Percy Weasley strode into the common room. His prefect badge was displayed proudly on his chest and he carried a rather long roll of parchment beneath his arm.

“What are you all doing up so early?” he asked pompously, looking over his horn-rimmed glasses.

“Reviewing our first few weeks at Hogwarts,” Phoenix answered quickly. Harry shot her an impressed smirk.

“And you couldn’t wait until breakfast?” he asked, suspicious.

“We were too excited to sleep.” This wasn’t exactly a lie, either; Phoenix had been so anxious to hear about the three-headed dog that she’d woken up once every hour, afraid she’d overslept and would have to wait until the common room cleared that night to hear the details of their adventure.

Ron chose then to let out a long, obnoxious snore. Percy turned toward his sleeping brother, then back to Harry and Phoenix, his eyebrows raised.

“Well,” Harry shrugged. “Two of us were.”

“Right.” Percy brandished the rolled-up parchment, warned them not to “go making any trouble,” and found a desk beneath one of the windows overlooking the Hogwarts grounds.

Phoenix wondered whether it was advisable to continue discussing the three-headed dog with a prefect—especially one so strict and self-important as Percy—in the room and, judging by the horrified expression on his face, so was Harry. After a moment of silent deliberation, he leaned forward in his chair and whispered:

“Hagrid said that Gringotts was the safest place to hide something important, only second to Hogwarts.”

“Not just anyone can get into the school,” Phoenix agreed. “It’s all in _Hogwarts: A History_ ...there are enchantments to keep unwanted visitors out, Muggle _and_ magical.”

“If a Dark wizard—” Harry paused as Percy set a full inkwell down on the wooden desk with a resounding _thud_ and began writing. The fifth year was leaning so far forward over his desk that his nose nearly skimmed the flattened parchment. Once Harry was certain they were not being overheard, he continued. “If a Dark wizard did get into the vault somehow, then it’s a good thing that whatever-it-was had already been moved. It’ll be safer here, won’t it?”

“Yes, Harry, but it means that someone’s after it, too,” Phoenix whispered. “That they even _need_ the three-headed dog says a lot...and you can bet that there’ll be more enchantments protecting it.”

“Ron and I think it must be either really important or really dangerous.”

“Well, _that_  much is obvious,” she scoffed, turning to check on Percy, who was scratching hurriedly away on his parchment. When she looked back at Harry, he was absentmindedly staring at the lion portrait above the fireplace; it was evident that whatever energy he’d possessed at the beginning of their conversation was slowly ebbing away.

“I think we should keep an eye on the out-of-bounds corridor for now,” he said slowly.

“I agree.”

People began moving around in the dormitories upstairs and several voices filtered down the stone staircase on the right. It was just as well; they’d exhausted all they knew about the break-in and the three-headed dog. _How_ Harry, Ron, and Hermione had found it in the first place was irrelevant compared to what it was hiding, and neither he nor Phoenix had any clue what that could be. There was little they could do until they did some research, which would have to wait until after breakfast.

Harry shook Ron’s shoulder and the latter awoke with a start.

“I thought it was due next Friday!” he shouted.

“The Potions essay nightmare again, Ron?”

Percy tried to shush them just as a group of fifth-year girls stepped into the common room, chatting loudly about some Ravenclaw boy who was suddenly much more attractive now that he’d been made prefect. Phoenix saw Percy grin and puff out his chest as he waved at the passing students, none of whom acknowledged him in the slightest. They found an empty corner near the bulletin board and gossiped while more and more Gryffindors filed down the staircases on either side of the fireplace.

Figuring it was late enough to make their way to the Great Hall, Harry, Ron, and Phoenix swung the Fat Lady’s painting open and stood, dumbfounded, to one side as Hermione pushed her way past them without saying a word.

“She shouldn’t be mad at us. We didn’t make her do anything!” Ron said, jumping down from the portrait hole.

“Yeah, but do you really mind her giving you the silent treatment?” Phoenix laughed. “Honestly, if anyone’s going to suffer from this, it’s going to be me. You go to class with her, _I_ have to _live_ with her.”

 

Hermione stayed silent through all of breakfast, which would have been something like a miracle if she hadn’t also decided to sit as close as possible to Phoenix, who found herself absentmindedly rationing bacon, sausage links, and eggs onto the other girl’s plate before piling food onto her own.

“Why do you do that?” Ron dared to ask, his mouth stuffed nearly to the brim with baked beans.

“Do what?” Phoenix feigned ignorance, hastily filling her goblet to avoid looking Ron in the face. “Oh, look,” she said nonchalantly, still avoiding his eyes, “the mail’s here.”

Owls of all colors and sizes soared into the Great Hall. By now, each of the students—even those who were Muggle-born—were quite wont to seeing the birds circling overhead, searching for their owners; the morning mail delivery was nothing to gawk at, and only those who expected something from home ever paid the owls any mind. So when an excited buzz rose above the normal conversation, Phoenix was curious.

Halfway down the Gryffindor table, unmistakably trained on Harry, were six large screech owls carrying a long, thin package. They dropped it directly in front of the Boy-Who-Lived, who seemed surprised (it was only his second time receiving _any_ mail at Hogwarts in the nearly two months he’d been attending), and Phoenix watched as a seventh, smaller owl delivered him a letter. He tore the latter open first and read it quickly; meanwhile, all eyes around the hall were on Harry and the din had quieted to an anticipatory murmur.

When he seemed to be finished, Phoenix leaned forward and asked, “Does it say what model it is?”

“Model of what?” someone asked to her right. She turned to shoot them a _you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me_ glare, but realized it was one of the Weasley twins, both of whom were trying hard not to laugh.

“George,” Fred said, nudging his brother with his elbow. “I think it’s a brookstick.”

“No,” he dragged out the vowel. “Got to be a wand. Look, right shape and everything.”

“Little long for a wand, don’t you think, though?”

“Funny, really funny.” She rolled her eyes, but could not help the faint smile that pulled at the junction of her lips.

Hermione stood to leave and Phoenix noticed that Harry and Ron were already at the entrance to the Great Hall, pushing past eager onlookers.

“Where are _you_ going?” she asked in a voice far too condescending.

“They’ll think they can get away with anything.” She frowned, staring down at the table as if contemplating whether or not to take her seat again.

“And you’re going to do so much good, telling them off,” Phoenix teased. She turned back to her breakfast and began picking at her eggs. “That won’t make them want to be more reckless _at all_.”

Hermione stormed off at a jog.

“What’s wrong with her?” Fred asked, grabbing a strip of bacon from her plate.

“Er—I think—I think she’s mad that Harry and Ron don’t listen to her,” she said, unsure of what to disclose.

 _Can Fred and George know about the three-headed dog?_ she wondered. _Neville does, and he’s less of a friend than the twins…No. The less people who know, the better._

“She’s afraid of them losing points from Gryffindor all the time.”

Fred and George eyed her skeptically, but said nothing. They _did_ have that map, Phoenix recalled; she’d seen them use it on the first day of classes. If they had a device to sneak them into the kitchens undetected before breakfast, then it plausible to surmise they were able to see Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Neville’s mad dash from the Trophy Room to the out-of-bounds corridor the night before—assuming they’d been using the map at that time, which, knowing them, was a fair assumption.

“Wotcher, Nyx.” It was Marinia. Phoenix spun around on the bench, only to be pulled into a rib-cracking hug. “Long time.”

“Yeah,” Phoenix breathed out, but found it nearly impossible to recuperate. “Marinia— _er_ —please.”

“Oh, right, sorry,” the older girl apologized. She let go of her younger sister and smiled, flashing white teeth and skin in palid contrast against her dark hair and lips. “We need to catch up.”

Phoenix grunted uncommitally and nodded.

“No, Phoenix,” she scolded. “I mean, we’re going to catch up. Tonight after dinner.”

“What about your friends? Are they coming, too?”

This was apparently the wrong thing to ask; Marinia’s smile faded imperceptibly and her eyes dulled.

“Just one,” she muttered anxiously, rubbing her neck. “The rest have got—erm—things to do. I mean, Quidditch and...and N.E.W.T.s coming up and all.”

A girl sporting a yellow-and-black prefect’s badge called Marinia’s name from the Hufflepuff table, pulling the older girl out of her fog.

“Oh, I forgot, she wants to get to class early. I’ll talk to you later, alright?”

“Yeah.”

“Is seven okay?”

“Sure,” Phoenix said, “I’ll meet you—”

“In the library. Third floor,” Marinia shouted, running towards the hall entrance, where the Hufflepuff prepfect stood waiting. “See you, Phoenix!”

 

*              A              *              S              *              B              *

 

Dinner could not come soon enough. Hermione was in a temper after their ‘argument’ at breakfast, and her ire only grew when Harry and Ron recounted Draco’s bewilderment when he found out that, not only was Harry—a _first year_ —allowed his own broom, but the Slytherin was part of the reason the school made the exception.

“A Nimbus Two Thousand!” Phoenix nearly shouted in disbelief as they walked into Transfiguration. “That’s the fastest racing broom ever made, isn’t it?”

Hermione sniffed and raised her chin, but the three ignored her as they took their seats.

“You should have seen his face when I mentioned his Comet Two Sixty!” Ron said, clearly pleased with himself. “I bet no one’s really out-spent him in anything before.”

“Can’t wait until he realizes Harry’s been made Seeker,” Phoenix whispered to the boys. Hermione, to her right, sighed loudly and shifted in her chair.

The rest of the day passed as uncomfortably, with Hermione making disapproving noises every time the first years acknowledged Harry’s broomstick or his position on the House Quidditch team, which, understandably, was quite often. With Harry leaving dinner early for his first practice with the team captain, Oliver Wood, and Ron bolting to avoid Hermione’s scrutinizing glare, Phoenix was left alone with the girl.

“Oh, um,” she sputtered. “I’m meeting Marinia and Jasper in a bit. Don’t want to keep them waiting.”

Both siblings were chatting with friends at their House tables and neither looked ready to leave quite yet, but Hermione wouldn’t recognize them...or so, Phoenix was hoping. She hurried to Gryffindor Tower, threw _A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration_ into her book bag (to quote in an essay for Professor McGonagall), checked that her wand was still in the inner pocket of her school robes, and practically ran to the library; she knew that if Hermione caught sight of her on the way, she’d ask to meet Marinia and Jasper, and all three of them would suffer some of the cold shoulder she’d exhibited all day.

Phoenix sat within sight of the library entrance for at least half an hour before either of her siblings appeared. To her surprise, they walked in together, with the Hufflepuff prefect trailing one step behind Marinia. They found her table easily and pulled up three chairs.

The prefect sat directly across from Phoenix. She was slightly smaller than Marinia, with a thicker frame, a heart-shaped face, and striking blue eyes. Her long, strawberry blonde hair was pulled back into a sloppy ponytail and several unruly curls had escaped the constraints of the elastic, only to spill beautifully in front of her face and chest.

“Hello,” she said, her cheeks tinted pink. “My name is Alexandria.”

“Asteria,” the first year replied, shutting her Transfiguration textbook. “But everyone calls me Phoenix.”

“Ooh. Any reason why?”

Phoenix couldn’t help but feel that this girl was nervous; she could not, however, fathom _why_. She looked to Marinia for support, but her older sister looked as anxious as her friend.

“Just to annoy my mother, I think,” she simplified. Alexandria seemed nice enough, but the more complicated she made her answers, Phoenix thought, the more flustered the fifth year would become.

Both girls turned toward Marinia, who smiled awkwardly and blushed.

“So,” Jasper interjected through the uncomfortable silence, “fifth year is O.W.L. year. What classes are you taking?”

Alexandria visibly relaxed, her elbows coming to rest on the table in front of her, and Marinia mouthed an inaudible ‘thank you’ to her brother, who winked.

“Well,” she began. “Of course, all of the core subjects—Charms, Defense, Herbology, _Potions_ , et cetera—which are absolutely _killing_ me. Snape has practically assigned an essay every week since term started! Professor McGonagall’s a bit strict, but at least she realizes we have lives outside of her class.”

Jasper laughed and Marinia beamed. Phoenix still wasn’t sure what to make of this girl; she was a prefect, so she was smart and, presumably, well-behaved. She felt that, under normal circumstances, she would have liked Alexandria very much, but their meeting seemed so _forced_. It was as if her siblings had staged it all to gauge her reaction—or else, observe how well she and Alexandria got along.

“What else are you taking?” Jasper asked, glancing at the introduction to Phoenix’s Transfiguration essay. “What are your electives?”

“Arithmancy and Care of Magical Creatures,” Alexandria sighed. “I really wish I’d taken Muggle Studies, what with everything Marinia’s taught me…” Her voice trailed off and she tore her gaze quickly away from the seventh-year girl, who did the same. Her hand came up to absentmindedly brush a stray curl behind her left ear. “She’s really enthusiastic, I mean, and the class sounds—er— _interesting_.”

The conversation continued like this for a while; Alexandria and Phoenix would switch back and forth, talking about themselves, and Jasper would add information or ask questions whenever the discussion went dry. Marinia, all the while, sat silently in the corner. It was like that stereotypical scene in a movie, Phoenix thought, where a worried daughter introduces her boyfriend to her overprotective father for the first time...and then it hit her:

“Marinia, are you and Alexandria dating?” It was an innocent question, but it seemed to take the table by surprise.

Phoenix had come to the conclusion so suddenly, she hadn’t taken the time to consider it or wait for the conversation to reach a natural pause; Alexandria, who had been explaining the O.W.L. grading system (which, Phoenix was loathe to mention, she already knew, having helped Jasper the previous year), stopped mid-sentence, her hands pressed flat against the wooden surface of the desk. Her eyes were wide and clouded. Marinia, in comparison, was scanning Phoenix’s face frantically, searching for any sign of rage or judgment.

Jasper, however, was laughing.

“What’s so funny?” Marinia asked, brow furrowed. “Stop it, Jasper Pollux Skimple, or I swear I’ll—”

“Hey, don’t be so defensive.” He held his hands out, smiling; his cheeks were patched with various shades of red and a thick layer of tears blurred his eyes. To Phoenix, he looked much less _entertained_ than he did _relieved_. “Nyx got it right, that’s all. And look! We’ve been worried for nothing.”

He clapped his younger sister on the back and relaxed into his chair.

“You’re okay with them dating, aren’t you, Nyx?”

Alexandria was looking anywhere but the first year, but Marinia seemed incapable of tearing her gaze from a spot in the center of her forehead. Phoenix wasn’t sure where to look, what to do, or what to say, so she sat still.

“Are you?” Marinia whispered hopefully. “Is it okay with you if I date Alexandria?”

“I don’t understand why I _wouldn’t_ be okay with it, to be honest,” she admitted, raking dark hair away from her face. “I don’t know what the big deal is.”

“I’m a girl,” Alexandria piped up. Her voice was several notes higher than usual and her eyes were focused somewhere in the vacinity of Phoenix’s left shoulder.

“So?”

Marinia gave her a pitying look.

“Some people don’t like that, Nyx. We’re not really telling a lot of people.”

 

When Phoenix crawled into bed that night, Hermione was already asleep. The scarlet curtains of her four-poster were drawn so that she was only visible from the waist up on one side and Phoenix found herself staring at the girl’s gentle breathing for longer than she’d have liked to admit. She wanted to tell _someone_ about what she’d just learned that evening, but neither Harry nor Ron seemed suitable options—the fear that either of them would turn out to be one of those people who couldn’t accept Marinia and her girlfriend was too great.

Hermione, somehow, seemed more likely to understand...or, at the very least, sympathize. But the more Phoenix thought about discussing it with the Muggle-born, the less enthusiastic she became. She could not explain _why_ , no matter how hard shse grasped for an explanation; Phoenix almost felt as if just mentioning the topic to Hermione would bring about even _more_ revelations for which she was unprepared.

Perhaps it was best to do as Marinia said and keep their relationship a secret.

 

*              A              *              S              *              B              *

 

Halloween morning came and Hermione had barely said a word to Phoenix since their disagreement. Despite the peace and quiet, she was beginning to find herself a bit lonely in the dormitories after curfew, especially now that Harry was busy with homework and Quidditch practice three times a week. He barely had time to finish meals, never mind play a round of exploding snap or come up with far-reached theories as to what the three-headed dog was guarding. The only person to really keep her company in Gryffindor Tower anymore was Ron, and he almost always tried to convince or trick her into doing his homework for him.

“Seriously, Ron,” she had scolded the night before, slamming _Most Macabre Monstrosities_ shut on her lap, “I already finished the essay for Sinistra. I’m not going to do yours, too. This is getting ridiculous.”

“Will you at least check it after I’m done?” he asked. His ears were tinted crimson and he scanned the common room for gossiping standersby. “You always pass everything.”

“I already told you I would.” She sighed and rolled her eyes, hoping Hermione would begin talking to her again soon.

She woke up the next day exhausted. Her dreams had been strange, though she could remember very little: a party of some sort, with lavish clothes, gentle music, and beautiful figures with dark hair and eyes. The memory faded, however, as Phoenix jumped out of the portrait hole and was hit by the strong scent of baking pumpkin. The entire school, she found, reeked of it, and the Gryffindor first years could not wait until the feast that night.

Even more exciting, Professor Flitwick announced that he thought the class ready to practice levitating charms. Barely tall enough to reach Phoenix’s shoulder, he stood on a precarious-seeming pile of Charms textbooks in order to see over his desk (Phoenix often wondered _why_ he did this, when he could just as easily stand, or sit, in front of his desk, but never voiced this opinion out loud) and pointed to each student as he set them into pairs.

Despite Hermione’s recent silence, she inched imperceptibly closer to Phoenix, but the professor paid that no mind.

“Miss Granger,” he said, “would you mind working with Mr. Weasley? And Miss Skimple, with Mister Longbottom behind you. Thank you, girls.”

Neville invited Phoenix to sit between him and Seamus, who was partnered with Harry, while Ron shuffled reluctantly toward her vacant seat. Flitwick had charmed a number of large, grey-and-white feathers to fly around the students and land between the groups, one to each pair.

“Now, don’t forget that nice wrist movement we’ve been practicing!” he said as the last of the class pulled in their chairs. “Swish and flick, remember, swish and flick. And saying the magic words properly is very important, too—never forget Wizard Baruffio, who said ‘s’ instead of ‘f’ and found himself on the floor with a buffalo on his chest.”

Phoenix had practiced the spell before and felt confident in her ability. She rolled up her sleeve, flicked her wand, said “ _Wingardium leviosa_ ” in a strong, clear voice, and watched as the feather rose steadily several feet into the air. As she lowered her wand, the feather landed softly on the desk. She pretended not to hear Professor Flitwick’s praise from the front of the classroom.

“Wish I could do that,” Neville muttered, his eyes downcast.

“Have you tried, yet?”

He swallowed hard, his face crimson.

“Well, no, but—”

“Then you don’t know if you can do it, do you?” she smiled. “Just try the wrist movement. A little more gracef— _yes_ , that’s it! And now the incantation _._ ”

Neville swallowed again. His eyes were trained intensely on the feather and he practiced the wand movement once more before trying the spell itself.

“ _W—win...gardium levi—os—sa,_ ” he stuttered. When nothing happened to the feather, he creased his brow, sunk into his chair, and mumbled, “I told you I’m lowsy.”

“It could be worse,” Phoenix said, hoping she sounded encouraging. “Seamus set his on fire. Look. You just have to try again. You’ll get it.”

By the end of the class, Neville had succeeded in sending the feather a few inches into the air as if a breeze had wafted gently across the desk; there was no control, and it would always be blown away from him and land on the floor behind Ron, but it was improvement.

“I’m actually really proud of him,” Phoenix told Harry and Ron as they exited the classroom. “Is that condescending?”

“A bit, yeah,” Harry teased, and Phoenix nudged him. “Just being honest.”

“Glad _you_ had a great time,” Ron griped.

“‘ _Make the ‘gar’ nice and long,’_ Ronald,” Phoenix laughed. “So glad Flitwick put me with Neville. What, with her attitude recently—”

Hermione pushed her way past Phoenix, practically shoving the other girl into the wall. At the end of the corridor, she turned briefly back to the trio and Phoenix could clearly see the wet shine of tears. Guilt ate at her inside the rest of the day.

 

“Well, Parvati was right,” she sighed, taking a seat at the Gryffindor table just as a thousand live bats soared around the Great Hall and food appeared suddenly on the empty golden plates, signalling the start of the Halloween feast. “She’s hiding in the girls’ bathroom, crying.”

“She’s been there _all day_?”

“Why don’t you just go talk to her?” Ron asked through a forkful of baked potato.

“Oh, I didn’t think of that, Ron, how thick of me.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm. “Do you really think she wants to talk to me after what I said?”

The boys didn’t answer; they were both watching Professor Quirrell, who was now hurrying toward the professors’ table. One hand shot up to steady his turban as he ran. By the time he reached Dumbledore, he had caught the attention of nearly every student.

“Troll—” he gasped through uneven breaths, “in the dungeons—thought you ought to know.” He fainted while leaning against the headmaster’s chair, and the uproar that ensued was filled with both worry and excitement.

Dumbledore shot several purple firecrackers from his wand, silencing the Great Hall, and ordered the prefects to lead their Houses back to their common rooms. Phoenix paid the instruction no mind.

“This is great!” she said, turning to Harry and Ron. “This is the perfect distraction. We can get in and out of the out-of-bounds corridor without being seen!”

Ron looked at her as if she had two heads.

“Are you joking?” He stood to leave. “Imagine getting caught running around the castle during all of this.”

“Who’s going to be around to see us?” she asked, grinning.

“She has a point,” Harry admitted. All three of them followed Percy into the Entrance Hall. They were halfway up the staircase when a thought struck Harry. He grabbed Phoenix and Ron by the sleeves and nearly shouted, “Hermione’s still in the bathroom!”

“So?” Ron shrugged him off.

Phoenix understood what Harry was insinuating and groaned.

“She doesn’t want to see _me_ , Harry. You and Ron go and get her.”

One look from the boys told her it was not an option; the three first years ducked, shuffled over to the Hufflepuffs, who were making their way down the opposite end of the corridor, and broke off from the group once the rest of the Gryffindors were out of view. When they’d nearly reached the girls’ bathroom, Ron pushed Harry and Phoenix behind a large, stone griffin. She opened her mouth to ask why, but was shushed.

Phoenix was never so glad to see Snape as she was at this moment. He stopped at the corner, just beyond where the three were hidden, looked hurriedly around, and continued on toward the third-floor corridor. She had an excuse—a wonderful, fool-proof excuse—to ditch the boys. She wouldn’t have to confront Hermione, nor stand by awkwardly while Harry and Ron saved the day. Phoenix would finally have her own adventure.

“We know where he’s going,” she said hopefully. “I’ll follow him and see _why_. You guys get Hermione. We’ll meet back at Gryffindor Tower.”

To her surprise, neither Harry nor Ron had any objections. Despite their insistence that seeing the three-headed dog was something they very much wanted to do again, Phoenix got the feeling they’d much rather stay out of its way.

While the boys hurried toward the girls’ bathroom, she knew it’d be best to kept her distance from Snape; if she was caught following him, she’d lose both the opportunity to see the three-headed dog for herself and to figure out what purpose the Potions master had in visiting the out-of-bounds corridor. Not to mention a load of points from Gryffindor House. She didn’t even set foot on the stairs until he had reached the landing, which set her so far behind that, had she not already inferred where he was headed, she would have lost him entirely.

Phoenix crept up the staircase as quietly as possible, searched the area quickly for any patrolling teachers or prefects, and hid behind a suit of armor just as a nasty, animalistic growl errupted from behind the door to the out-of-bounds corridor. The noise was so loud that she almost didn’t hear the terrified screams from the first floor, or the thunderous _crack_ of stone sinks being shattered.

“Back! Back!” someone shouted.

A low, threatening bark, then more growling, and Snape came running from the corridor. He shut the door behind him and leaned back against it. For several moments, he stayed like that, panting and clutching at his ribs. His face was contorted with pain and he opened his robes, not daring to look down at the large gash on his leg that, Phoenix had noticed, was bleeding out onto the floor. She craned her neck to better see his wound, but with a flick of his wand, both the pain and the blood seemed to vanish. He steadied his breathing, tucked his wand back into his robes, and limped down the staircase toward the first floor.

Despite her excitement to see the three-headed dog, Phoenix wasn’t sure whether it was safe anymore. The others had been lucky—they’d caught it by surprise and escaped before it could do any damage—but Snape’s injury was enough proof that the creature was awake, alert, and not afraid to attack. She couldn’t take the chance that she’d be bitten. What would she tell Madam Pomfrey when she showed up in the hospital wing?

With a heavy sigh, Phoenix reluctantly traced the route to Gryffindor Tower.

“Where have you been?” Fred asked as she climbed into the portrait hole. “We saved you some food.”

“Thanks,” she said, settling into a desk chair between the twins. “Percy notice I was missing?”

“You kidding me?” Fred and George’s friend, Lee Jordan, laughed from across the desk they were sharing. “Perfect Prefect doesn’t notice a thing, his head’s so far up his own—”

But the portrait hole was open again and Hermione shuffled through. She waited by the door until Harry and Ron, looking absolutely thrilled, joined her and together they made their way toward where Phoenix, Lee, and the twins sat.

“Are we speaking again?” Phoenix asked, not daring to look Hermione in the face.

“Yes,” she nearly whispered.

A pause.

“Good,” Phoenix smiled and shot the boys an accusing glare. “Because _someone_ had another adventure without me.” She turned to Hermione. “And I’d love to hear all about it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What'd you think?
> 
> Direct quotes from the original:
> 
> “Now, don’t forget that nice wrist movement we’ve been practicing!...Swish and flick, remember, swish and flick. And saying the magic words properly is very important, too—never forget Wizard Baruffio, who said ‘s’ instead of ‘f’ and found himself on the floor with a buffalo on his chest,” and “Make the ‘gar’ nice and long.” p 171.
> 
> “Troll—...in the dungeons—thought you ought to know.” p 172.


	11. Quidditch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! 
> 
> I know, I know, I promised this sooner, but I'll make it up to you, I swear. 
> 
> XOXO Kanene

By the following morning, every Gryffindor knew how Harry and Ron had saved poor, defenseless Hermione from a twelve-foot mountain troll. The story had been embellished, of course, and each student’s version was slightly more fantastic than the one before, but the details were unimportant; no matter how they’d done it, two first-year boys had vanquished a fully grown troll  _ with it’s own club _ and escaped with their lives. 

Despite their insistence to Phoenix that they were annoyed by all the gossip and attention, Harry and Ron did nothing to dispel the grander rumours. Dean, a Muggle-born who knew  _ nothing  _ about trolls before the feast, kept praising their ability to outwit such a devious and capable creature; Seamus engaged a small audience before breakfast, boasting how incredibly brave and selfless the boys acted; even Fred and George Weasley, who had heard the story directly from the first years, shared their own version of events, dispensing new and unrealistic details to gullible first and second years in the Great Hall. 

The fame was rather short-lived, however, as talk turned quickly to the upcoming Quidditch season, and Phoenix found herself relieved. No one had time to question and uncover what really happened, which may have been detrimental to Harry and Ron’s popularity and, by extension, Harry’s performance in his first Quidditch match that Saturday. If people knew the truth—that Ron was only capable of producing a simple Levitation Charm (and not one of the many advanced defensive spells it’d been rumoured he’d used), that trolls were ranked as having one of the lowest intelligences of all Magical Creatures, or that the reason Hermione needed saving was because Harry and Ron had  _ locked her in with the troll  _ after seeing it enter the girls’ bathroom (by accident, of course, as neither knew which room was the girls’ lavatory)—most of them would most likely consider them reckless and stupid, instead of brave and quick-thinking. Phoenix refused to let herself dwell on the fact that Hermione would not have been hiding in the bathroom  _ at all _ if she’d just been a bit kinder to the girl.

 

No matter how fascinating their defeat of the mountain troll seemed, Harry, Ron, and Hermione were far more interested in hearing what Phoenix had to say about Snape. 

“He went to the out-of-bounds corridor?” Ron asked, visibly shocked. 

“Um, yeah,” Phoenix said. She was surprised—was the fact that Snape had been running off to the third floor  _ not _ the very reason Harry and Ron let her leave? It took a moment for her to gather her thoughts, and still her response was less than intelligent. “Something’s being hidden and a troll somehow waltzes into Hogwarts.  _ Someone _ must be trying for the out-of-bounds corridor...I thought that much was obvious.” 

From the look on the boys’ faces, it was not. Hermione, on the other hand, rolled her eyes and said, “Yes, of course it is.  _ But what happened? _ ”

Ron’s glare went unnoticed. 

“I’m not really sure,” Phoenix continued, lowering her voice as several fifth-year Ravenclaw girls passed them in the corridor. “All I know is that he’s injured.  _ Badly _ . So the good news is that the three-headed dog seems capable of guarding the thingy for now.”

Harry ducked to dodge Peeves the Poltergeist, who flew just above the first years and through the portrait of a bored-looking woman in an ancient, white-linen dress. Unfazed, he straightened himself up and asked, “And the bad news?”

“Well, first, we still have no idea what the thingy is,” Phoenix said, hesitant to enter the Great Hall. “And second, you thought Snape was grumpy  _ before _ losing capture-the-flag to Cerberus. I’ll bet you a night’s homework that he’ll be unbearable until that leg heals.”

 

Phoenix was right, of course; Snape seemed to be in a worse mood than usual, a feat which many of his students had once thought impossible. By the end of the week, he’d taken ten points from Gryffindor House, criticized even the Slytherins for making minor mistakes, and caused three students (other than Neville Longbottom, that is) to cry during class. Even Hermione, who was normally so collected and confident in her coursework, was second-guessing herself; by Friday, she looked ready to tear her hair out. The only one who seemed to make it through unscathed was Phoenix, who was, undoubtedly, Snape’s favorite. 

“One more point to Gryffindor, Miss Skimple,” he said, looking around the dungeon room at the perspiring, red-eyed students. “I do hope others follow your example as the term continues.” 

He watched Harry, who stared back defiantly, then crossed to sort through the paperwork on his desk. Phoenix noticed the slightest wince as he hesitated on every other step.

“Review the ingredients list for the Forgetfulness Potion—you may find you’ll need it for your exams at the end of the term.” Black eyes peered lifelessly around the class, only to land on Phoenix, who immediately shied and looked down at her open textbook. She could feel the glowers from the other first years around her. “Five points to whichever House produces the best sample. You are dismissed.” 

“I don’t understand,” Ron whined as they climbed the staircase to the Entrance Hall. “He doesn’t even like Gryffindors. It just doesn’t make sense. I mean, if you were a Slytherin, then I could see it, but...” 

His voice trailed off and Phoenix felt her stomach lurch. 

“Yeah,” she mumbled, “I don’t get it, either.”

 

*              A              *              S               *              B              *

 

If Harry were not so busy with Quidditch—with their first match being that Saturday, Wood had begun scheduling extra team practices on top of the established three per week—Phoenix may have offered to join him on the pitch. She loved to fly, and what little the first years were allowed to do during Flying lessons was not satisfying in the least. Those students who were less than confident on a broomstick, namely Neville and Hermione, kept the rest of the class from gaining what Madam Hooch called “free range” of the allotted field and the Slytherins were just untrustworthy enough that the hawk-eyed instructor paid very close attention to their height, speed, and distance from herself. If someone traveled too far toward the Forbidden Forest, or flew so high that the outdated school brooms began to vibrate, the rest of the class suffered the same penalizing restrictions as the ‘wrongdoer’ and either be asked to perform some simple, monotonous exercise or told to dismount their broomsticks altogether. 

With Harry’s constant talk about Quidditch and her own lackluster Flying lessons, Phoenix wanted nothing more than to stalk down to the stadium after the final bell and take a few laps around the pitch. But there were four House teams, each of which wanted to win the Hogwarts Quidditch Cup (rewarded near the end of term) as badly as the next, and so vying for a time to practice. Though Wood seemed the most enthusiastic, the other team captains took any open slot, ensuring that the pitch was well and booked most of the afternoon from the end of lessons until curfew.

Perhaps, Phoenix mused, Wood would lighten up after their first game and she’d have time to fly, with or without Harry and Ron. 

The other downside to constant practice was that Harry was very busy—so busy, in fact, that he often had little time for his studies outside of class. Hermione was always willing to check the boys’ homework for errors, which would usually lead to her either giving them the answers or writing the assignment, at least in part. But she was often in the library before practice and asleep by the time Harry returned to Gryffindor Tower afterward. This left him some days with only two resources: Ron and Phoenix, of which (in academic cases, at least) the latter was far more preferable. 

Phoenix, however, was not like Hermione. In her eyes, education was a priceless gift that should not be squandered simply becuase the student was bored or uninterested in the subject matter. She enjoyed her studies, that much was true; what separated her from the Muggle-born was that she was only ever willing to work on certain subjects and courses so much as what was required of her. Despite receiving high marks in Astronomy, for example, she would refuse to do anything extra, to delve further into the topic, or unnecessarily duplicate her answers—Harry knew that asking her to finish an Astronomy assignment for him was useless, because  _ “I already finished it once, why would I want to do it again?” _

When it came to Defense Against the Dark Arts or Transfiguration, however, Harry found he’d struck gold. Not only would she be so interested in the assignment that she’d finish it for him completely, but she would also make sure that his version was completely different from her own. If Professors Quirrell or McGonagall compared the two, there would be no obvious link, no sentences or phrases copied word-for-word, and, subsequently, no grounds on which to penalize either of the students for ‘cheating.’ (Phoenix had the feeling that McGonagall had caught on sometime near the start of Quidditch practice, but, if she had, the Deputy Headmistress chose to say nothing, perhaps knowing it could ruin Gryffindor’s chances at winning the Cup.) Phoenix was certain Snape would use anything he had against Harry, and so left him to his own in Potions. 

The morning before his first game, Hermione met Harry before breakfast to give him a copy of  _ Quidditch Through the Ages _ . He was nervous, Hermione and Phoenix could tell, but the book seemed a sufficient distraction from the comments Slytherin students shouted and jeered at him in the corridors. 

“Hey, Nyx,” he began, clinging excitedly to the correct page as he, Phoenix, Ron and Hermione huddled around a bright blue fire that Hermione had conjured—with an impressive smirk—and carried around the freezing courtyard in a jar. “Did you know that there are seven hundred ways to commit—”

“A Quidditch foul,” she finished. “Yes, I did.”

Harry sighed and slumped forward into his book. 

“It’s just that I’ve been raised on it,” Phoenix added, noticing his disappointment. “Basic stuff like that is common knowledge. Especially since my brother’s such a fanatic about it...and a stickler.”

“What team?” Ron piped up. He’d been mostly quiet during break, staring down unseeingly into the flame, but was jarred from his thoughts as Hermione moved to face Phoenix, effectively shadowing the brilliant blue light. 

“He and Dad love the Falcons,” she said, leaning back on her elbows. “Well, Dad’s from Falmouth, so no wonder. Mum has no preference, and Marinia takes sides per match.”

“And you?”

“Holyhead Harpies.”

But neither Ron nor Harry heard her; Professor Snape had made his way into the courtyard, limping lightly past a crowd of chattering students paying him no mind. The boys moved to hide the fire Hermione had created—leading the Muggle-born to do the same—and it seemed that this was sufficiently suspicious. His hair, which hung like greasy black curtains down either side of his face, swung back and forth as he favored his left leg. The three Gryffindors tried not to cower as he hobbled closer.

“Hello, Professor,” Phoenix said cheerfullly. It looked as if she’d taken them all by surprise—as if, in his unrivaled hatred for Harry, Snape hadn’t even noticed the girl at his side. Even Harry and Ron were visibly startled by her outburst. “How has your day been?”

He thought a moment before answering.

“For your sake,” he droned, looking back at the boys’ guilty faces, “I do hope you’re keeping out of trouble.”

Phoenix smiled and nodded. 

“Of course!” She hadn’t conjured the flame, so, technically, she hadn’t broken any school rules. 

With one final glower, Snape spun on his heels and exited the courtyard. 

Ron turned to Phoenix with a wide grin. “How the bloody hell do you do that?” 

 

*              A              *               S              *              B             *

 

Phoenix woke up late the following morning and strode to breakfast alone. Harry, Ron, and Hermione were already sitting at the Gryffindor table, the former sulking and pale while the others leaned imperceptibly and pushed platters of food in his direction. 

“He refuses to eat anything,” Hermione whispered as Phoenix took the seat beside her. “It’ll only make the game worse for him.” 

Like was her habit, Phoenix filled Hermione’s plate before her own. When she was finished, however, she stole Harry’s from the table in front of him, piled a healthy serving of eggs and sausage, and replaced it without saying a word. The first-year Seeker merely looked on, shameful and wary.

“Eat it, Harry, come on.”

And to their astonishment, he allowed himself several forkfuls of egg and a single sausage link before scrambling to his feet and dismissing himself early to practice.

“People just need a bit of a push sometimes,” she hummed, bringing her goblet to her lips. “Is the banner ready?”

Dean nodded, swallowing hard. 

“Yeah, it’s done,” Neville said. “Can’t wait to see it in the stands.” 

A group of first years had designed a scarlet banner for Harry’s first game, using one of Ron’s ripped bedsheets; Dean had drawn the Gryffindor lion beneath the phrase  _ Potter for President _ , which Phoenix had spent the previous afternoon carefully outlining while lying on the floor of the common room. Neville and Seamus knelt beside her, filling the letters in as she finished and fixing any mistakes or hiccups. 

They were among the first to enter the stands, procuring seats in the front of the Gryffindor section where Harry was sure to spot them. The Slytherins opposite them booed and jeered as the team stepped onto the field. 

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Hermione shrieked. She pulled her wand from inside her robes, aimed it at the banner, and whispered some incantation Phoenix had never heard before. The paint, previously black and yellow, suddenly flashed various colors. 

Phoenix was in awe. 

“I’ve never even heard of that spell,” she admitted, turning back to the pitch. Madam Hooch had joined the players, who were now mounting their brooms. One or two Slytherins took an early start; they pushed off from the ground a second before the Gryffindors, who still managed first possession of the Quaffle. 

“Explain this to me one more time,” Dean said, completely lost. “That reddish ball there, the one like the soccer ball...that’s the...the Qu—the quo—”

“Quaffle,” Phoenix supplied. 

Beside her, Neville was trying very hard not to notice the fifty-foot difference between the bottom of his seat and the ground below; someone had graciously lent him a pair of binoculaurs to better focus on the game, but every so often his gaze would drift downward. 

Phoenix had never been allowed to watch Quidditch in person—never been allowed to sit in the stands, so high that many Muggle-borns around the stadium were turning green or pale white and avoiding any eye contact with the ground—but she understood how necessary it was for them to be raised to the height of the hoops, where most of the action would take place. 

“Chasers take the Quaffle  _ there _ to score.” As she explained, she pointed to a set of vertical hoops at the top of three wooden poles, each of which (from their raised elevation) sat around eye level. On the opposite side of the pitch was an identical set. “Ten points if you get it past the Keeper. That’s Wood for us.” 

Just above them, the players fought for possession of the Quaffle while Lee Jordan commentated. A smaller ball—jet black and charmed to move with (what at least  _ seemed _ ) free will—hit the Gryffindor Chaser, a girl named Katie Bell, in the back of the head and Slytherin took possession of the Quaffle once again. 

“What was that?” Dean asked, horror-struck. 

“The black ball? Bludger. Fred and George are the Beaters, they’re supposed to keep the Bludgers away from our players, but—SCORE!” Phoenix shouted. In their excitement, the group of first years stood on their toes to hold the scarlet banner just that much higher. “I’m sorry, what was I saying?”

“What’s Harry doing?” 

“He’s Seeker,” she said distractedly, keeping her eyes on the game above. “Looking for the Snitch.”

“The what?” he asked. 

But Phoenix wasn’t paying attention; Hagrid had made his way into the Gryffindor stands and was slowly maneuvering towards Ron and Hermione. He didn’t seem to notice Phoenix and she took this as an excuse to pay thorough attention to the game. 

“The Golden Snitch is tiny,” she explained, her words rushed, “and nearly impossible to find. It’s Harry’s job to catch it. One-hundred and fifty points if he can manage.

“And the game ends,” she added as an afterthought.

Dean was still a little more than slightly confused, but said nothing. Both Harry and the Slytherin Seeker, Terence Higgs, dove in that moment, following a flash of gold that very few in the stands could see until Harry was knocked off course by Slytherin Captain Marcus Flint. 

“FOUL!” Phoenix screamed above the din, leaning forward on the wooden rail. “HE DID THAT ON PURPOSE, HOOCH!” 

Hermione giggled into her shoulder as the Gryffindors around them booed and shouted complaints at the referee. Most of the spectators were so enraged that it was almost impossible to hear Lee Jordan’s comments. 

“Yeh wouldn’ happen ter be Phoenix, would yeh?” Hagrid asked, having finally noticed the girl. She nodded. “Ron and Harry’s tol’ me all abou’ yeh.”

At this, Ron flushed. Phoenix tried to divert their attention back to the game.

“Anyone know where the Snitch has gone?” 

“No,” Ron huffed, “but penalty to Gryffindor, at least.” 

Phoenix didn’t know why she did it—why she stopped watching the game with such fervor—but the moment the Quaffle was halfway down the pitch, her gaze drifted. She watched Harry instead. There was no particular reason to, for the Snitch had not yet been spotted, but a gnawing sensation in her stomach warned her that something strange was about to happen. 

And suddenly, Harry lost complete control of his broom. Phoenix could see the growing panic on his face as he grasped the handle, shifting his shoulders this way and that in an attempt to turn, but the broom ignored his commands. It rocked and bucked and drifted higher above the stands. Slytherin scored, but Phoenix took no notice. 

Despite there being no official section set aside primarily for members of staff, the professors had a marvelous way of congregating during Quidditch matches. Phoenix scanned the benches, looking for anything suspicious, but found nothing—no student was capable of jinxing a broomstick, and it made no sense that a  _ teacher _ would do something so terrible. But still, brooms didn’t act of their own accord…

Quickly, she searched out any adult wizards in the crowd—McGonagall, Sprout, and Flitwick (perched on something akin to an toddler’s high chair) were all watching the Quaffle intently, chatting while they huddled together, the former keeping Lee Jordan’s comments in check; Professor Vector, who taught Astronomy, sat alone; and, skirting the Slytherin section opposite, sat Snape, his eyes following the Gryffindor Beaters’ every move. By now, others had begun to notice Harry’s dilemma and a frantic murmur overtook the crowd. 

“Let me check—” She didn’t finish her thought, but pushed past the first years (and Hagrid) out of the main seats and around the stadium. There was no one she could see, and no leads to follow; she stood, helplessly, behind the spectators, waiting for an idea. When none came, she pushed her way to the front row once again, this time among the Hufflepuffs, and searched the stands with a new perspective. 

Almost every student and professor was watching Harry—who’d been thrown off and was attempting to hold onto his broomstick with one hand—which made it far more difficult to decipher whose mutterings were jinxes and whose were gossip and panic. It didn’t take long for her to realize that Snape had locked eyes on the Gryffindor Seeker, chanting something under his breath.

But he couldn’t be the one doing this,  _ could he? _ She wasn’t sure she could recall whether or not she’d seen him earlier, or, if she had, what she’d seen him doing. She’s been so eager to act, she hadn’t taken proper stock of the situation.

Phoenix rushed back behind the crowd. A ways down, she could see Hermione running towards the Slytherins, pushing Professor Quirrell down in her haste and pulling out her wand. He sputtered and shook, his face red and eyes wide in a mixture of fear and anger that Phoenix had never before observed; he searched the pitch, found Harry, and began to quickly mutter something under his breath. But the first year was too close, or, more likely, watching him too intensely. His head snapped in her direction and his stuttering ceased immediately, as if her attentions had broken him from a trance. 

Quirrell’s eyes were so clear and confident that Phoenix felt as if she were witnessing another side to the professor, normally nervous and incoherent—as if she’d found the cracks in his façade. 

He did not stare for more than a moment or two before moving to stand, but Phoenix was so disturbed by his penetrating gaze that she chose to focus instead on Hermione. There was not much she could see at this distance, but the brilliance of a familiar blue flame engulfed the hem of Snape’s robes and burned so brightly that the first-year girl could see the scene perfectly: Hermione stood beneath the Potions Master, waiting for his concentration on Harry to break, and then scooped the flame up in a jam jar. Neither Snape nor anyone in the stands had noticed her below.

Phoenix could make out the self-satisfied grin that crept across the bushy-haired girl’s face before the latter stuffed the jar beneath her robes, dousing the stands in shadow; around them, the crowd sighed and cheered. They turned just in time to watch Harry go into his final dive, crash ungracefully to the ground, and emerge looking pale and sickly. For a moment, it seemed as if the Snitch had somehow gotten away, but Harry heaved, coughing the golden ball into the palm of his hand.

“Well done,” she whispered to Hermione while Lee announced Gryffindor’s victory. “Didn’t think you had it in you to  _ set a teacher on fire _ .”

Hermione nudged her. 

“Come on,” she said, pointing to Ron and Hagrid across the stadium, “I think they’re going to Hagrid’s hut.” 

 

*              A              *              S              *              B              *

The cabin was much like Phoenix expected. It consisted of a single room with little more than a bed, table, cooking fire, and some kitchen equipment, which hung largely from the high ceiling. Despite the lack of furniture, however, the home was filled to the brim with old newspapers, rusting appliances, food, clothing, and an assortment of things half-hidden on crowded surfaces. It was messier than any home she had ever seen...and Phoenix  _ loved _ it. 

Apart from his possessions, Hagrid also kept a black boar hound named Fang, who was less likely to bite than he was to lick a person to death.

“What a sweetie,” Phoenix muttered as she scratched Fang behind his left ear. 

“He’s harmless, really,” Hagrid insisted, clapping a hand down on the giant dog’s back. “An’ a coward, too. Jus’ barks a bit.”

“I believe you,” she laughed. 

Harry and Ron sat beside her at the table and began discussing the jinx the moment the door was properly shut. Hagrid, on the opposite wall, was preparing tea. 

“It was Snape,” the latter said. “Hermione and I saw him. He was cursing your broomstick, muttering, he wouldn’t take his eyes off you.” 

Phoenix said nothing, but tried to search her mind for any recollection of Snape during the game. She was almost certain he’d been distracted at first, so there was no way he could have, right? He was watching Fred and George with a look of disdain so foul and encompassing that there was little mistaking his anger. A jinx of that proportion required absolute concentration and eye contact, neither of which—if her memory served her correctly—Snape had exhibited. 

But perhaps Hermione and Ron were correct. It made sense: he’d gone to the out-of-bounds corridor while the entire school was sufficiently distracted, inside of which, presumably, sat a very valuable and dangerous artifact that either the Ministry, or Hogwarts, or  _ both _ were intent on keeping safe. It was not a stretch, therefore, to imagine he’d be willing to rid himself of the only person at the school who’d proven himself capable against Dark Magic. 

“Why would Snape do something like that?” Hagrid asked, and Phoenix was pulled from her thoughts. 

“He’s right,” she said suddenly, causing all three other first years to turn. “Hagrid’s right. I don’t think Snape did this. He  _ can’t _ have. He was looking away when Harry was jinxed—”

“But we  _ saw _ him, Nyx,” Ron interrupted. “He was—” 

“I don’t care what you saw. Harry was jinxed long before anyone took notice, and Professor Snape was just as oblivious as the rest of us until I left.” But she lacked conviction. She was pleading his case, she knew, without much proof, and her voice betrayed a level of uncertainty. 

Ron, Hermione, and Harry were ready to latch onto this to stoke their own argument, but Phoenix spoke above them. 

“I know you’re going to mention Halloween,” she nearly shouted, pointing a finger at the three first years, “but we don’t know  _ why _ he was trying to get past the three-headed dog, and until we do—”

There was a loud  _ crash _ as Hagrid dropped his tea pot. 

“You know abou’ Fluffy?” 

“ _ Fluffy?” _ Harry and Ron asked, distracted, but Phoenix saw an opening. 

“What is Fluffy hiding?” she said before Hagrid had time to answer. 

He stood quite still, mouth frozen in a gaping “O” and brow furrowed; she’d taken him off-guard, but it seemed he’d caught himself before disclosing anything important. What came out was choppy and unhelpful. 

“I won’ go askin’ you again. Don’ meddle with things that don’ concern yeh, yer just chil’ren,” he ranted. By now his face had turned a deep shade of scarlet and his beetle black eyes were frantically flitting from student to student. 

The others seemed to understand Phoenix’s line of attack: Hagrid, though a fierce and loyal friend, was not the quickest thinker, and it would not take much budging to worm what information they needed...not if they worked together, at least. 

So they came from all different angles. 

_ “But Snape will steal it if we don’t do something!” _

_ “He tried to kill Harry!” _

_ “If it’s so dangerous, why is it in the school?” _

_ “Who else knows about it?” _

_ “They already broke into Gringotts!” _

And, finally, Hagrid shouted the first thing that came to mind. 

“Forget that dog, an; you forget what it’s guardin’, that’s between Professor Dumbledore and Nicolas Flamel—”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would love to hear from you guys! Please, please, PLEASE comment and give me your thoughts. I really want to address any questions or problems you have with it. 
> 
>  
> 
> Quotes directly from the book:
> 
> “It was Snape...Hermione and I saw him. He was cursing your broomstick, muttering, he wouldn’t take his eyes off you.” and “Why would Snape do something like that?” page 192.  
> “Forget that dog, an; you forget what it’s guardin’, that’s between Professor Dumbledore and Nicolas Flamel—” page 193.


	12. The Mirror of Erised

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phoenix just wants to be alone for once (is that too much to ask?) and ends up finding a strange mirror hidden in a disused part of the castle. 
> 
> Or, the time Phoenix finally gets to have all the fun, but ends up sitting alone in a dark room for hours, staring at a piece of furniture.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so...I don't wanna give anything away, BUT you will find out a little bit about Phoenix, depending on how you interpret this chapter. Someone is in denial, and it isn't our protagonist. ;D
> 
> Anyway, here it is. Enjoy!

_Asteria,_

 

_Your brother and sister will be spending Christmas with us this term. We do not, however, require that you join them. Please send word of your plans promptly._

 

_Sincerely,_

_Mother_

 

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_Darling Asteria,_

 

_We hope you have a wonderful Christmas! Whether you spend it with us or your school friends is entirely up to you, of course! Your mother can be a bit blunt at times...please do not take what she wrote badly. She means well._

 

_I’m so proud of you! You seem to be getting along in your classes exceptionally well. And here I was worried you’d have a hard time! Don’t tell him I’ve told you, but Jasper was more than a little homesick in his first year at Hogwarts. Sent letters home nearly every day asking how things were going, making sure he could come home for holidays—back then, of course, Aunt Madeleine was still in the country, and we were wont to spending Christmas and Easter at her house. He was_ _so_ _afraid he’d be left behind. Do you remember Aunt Madeleine? You were so small, I doubt it, but she still checks in from time to time to see how you’ve grown._

 

_Professors McGonagall and Snape are both very strict and hard to please, and so I’m happy (but not surprised) that you’ve impressed them early on. Marinia says the latter mentioned you during her Potions class. She apparently flubbed an easy answer that you yourself got correct at the start of term, and I’m quoting her here, “about the ingredients in the Draught of Living Death...asphodel and wormskin or something.”_

 

_And, Asteria dear, I know Astonomy can be unchallenging and Professor Binns is, as you put it, “so boring that only Hermione seems capable of staying awake through his constant, monotone droning,” but these are classes every student has to take. Please don’t squander your chances at the opportunities you deserve just because you can’t stand the teacher._

 

_No, I know, you’d never do this, but I find I must warn you, or else I’ll feel sick with worry. You’re so bright, little Phoenix, but even the brightest must use their wits for that gift to have any worth._

 

_Love,_

_Dad_

 

_P.S._

_Dora may be coming ot stay with us this Christmas, and Marinia has asked if she can have a second friend over, too. Her name is Alexandria, if I’m not mistaken. I don’t know if you’ve met her, but she seems a very nice girl, from what your siblings have told me._

 

_The house may be cramped, but you are always welcome._

 

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Phoenix stewed, considering her options, and apparently took too long.

 

_You haven’t answered, so I’ve made the decision for you: I invited Dora and Marinia’s friend, Alexandria; they will be taking your room. If you’d like to stay here for holiday, you may sleep in the living room._

 

_Happy Christmas_

 

She didn’t expect anything more from her mother or father until Christmas Day, which, in retrospect, was too much to ask. They seemed unaware of each other’s correspondence and the moment she replied to her mother confirming that she’d signed up to stay the break at Hogwarts, Mr. Skimple sent yet _another_ letter reassuring her that they were more than happy to take her. It was all so confusing, and Phoenix considered herself lucky to escape having to be at the very heart of it.

Of course, she couldn’t say this to Marinia or Jasper. Neither of them would understand.

 

Hermione was very quick to notice the change in Phoenix’s demeanor—usually outgoing and social, if determinedly studious, Phoenix had withdrawn a bit more from her friends with each and every letter she received.

“What’s up with her?” Ron asked loudly at dinner one evening. Harry elbowed him in the ribs. “Why’d you—”

“Quiet, Ronald,” Hermione warned through gritted teeth. Then, turning to Phoenix, “I think we should go to the library first thing tomorrow. We haven’t had any luck finding him so far, but with you’re help I bet we’d do it.”

Harry, Ron, and Hermione had spent the majority of their free time in the library since Hagrid let slip Nicolas Flamel’s name. According to the Muggle-born, the three of them had checked every book they could think of—from _Important Modern Magical Discoveries_ to _Prefects Who Gained Power_ —and had found no trace of  Flamel or his work. It seemed that whatever linked him to Albus Dumbledore and the three-headed dog would not be found on modern library shelves.

“After break,” Phoenix mumbled, standing to leave, “if you still haven’t got anything useful, I’ll give you a hand.

“I’m going to bed.”

 

Phoenix could not decide whether or not to tell Hermione and the boys that she’d been given express permission to access the Restricted Section of the library for any use. She knew there was a possibility that Madam Pince would report their activity to the Headmaster, who could stop them from researching Flamel any further and take away her privilege, and it was not a risk she was ready to take. If they were in desperate need of answers—if someone was dangerously close to stealing whatever it was that Dumbledore was hiding— _then_ she’d resort to using it.

“Fred, George,” she asked hesitantly, scanning the shelves around them for eavesdroppers. “Do you—erm—know of any place, inside the school, where I could…”

Her voice trailed off, but the twins seemed to understand. They grinned at one another and leaned forward on their elbows.

“Knew you weren’t really here to study,” George said.

“Too suspicious.” Fred winked and shoved his unopened textbook back into his bag. “There’s an empty classroom a few halls from here.”

“A right, a left—”

“Another left.”

“We’ve never actually been in there, but it’s always vacant, it seems.”

“So if you’re keen on doing a bit of quiet studyin’,” he smirked, “it’s the perfect place.”

Phoenix sighed and relaxed against an armrest. In her bag, drooping heavily from the back of her chair, sat four large, dusty volumes that looked as if they hadn’t been touched in years. All of them mentioned Albus Dumbledore and his works before becoming Headmaster of Hogwarts, but Phoenix had barely made a dent in the reading material in nearly thirty minutes. It was the last day before Hermione left for holiday, and she, Harry, and Ron had all decided to take a break from researching Nicolas Flamel. But that didn’t mean their determination would waver; Phoenix knew that if she didn’t move quickly, Hermione, at least, would come into the library and spot her, and she very much felt like working alone at the moment.

She thanked the twins and made her way carefully to the empty classroom.

 

The room was in disuse and probably had been for some time. Desks and chairs were pushed tightly up against the walls and a trash bin laid upside-down near the door. Dim, cold light shone through the higher windows, and Phoenix found the silver-grey silhouette they cast to be oddly peaceful.

Unlike the strange simplicity of the dusty stone classroom, an ornate mirror stood imperiously above the stacked furniture on large, clawed feet. Its golden frame coiled and curved toward the ceiling, its details lost in shadow, and on the top was inscribed the words, _“Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi.”_

_“I show you, not your face, but your heart’s desire,”_ she read it backward after several failed attempts to derive meaning from the jabberwocky otherwise.

Phoenix checked the hallway outside before closing the door behind her. She sat cross-legged in front of the mirror, her book bag clutched tightly to her stomach, and waited for something to appear. Nothing—nothing but her own reflection. She inched closer once, then again, and again, until she was several feet from the smooth glass surface.

And there he was: the figure of a tall, fair-skinned man with long black hair. He looked down at her at first, smiling handsomely with a casual pride Phoenix had never seen directed toward herself, then squatted beside her. After a moment, his hand came to rest on her shoulder—but only in the mirror. As Phoenix reached back to grab the hand, she was met with nothing but empty air.

His grey eyes, Phoenix noticed, though considerably lighter, looked incredibly like her own.

 

*              A              *              S              *              B              *

 

When Phoenix awoke on Christmas morning, there was a small stack of presents waiting at the foot of her bed. On top sat a bag of owl treats for Hemera, which had never been wrapped, and a small, white envelope.

_Asteria,_ the letter inside read, _enclosed is a photograph of our gift to you. Sorry we couldn’t send it, but you’ll understand. Happy Christmas, Mom and Dad._

The photograph, like many in the wizarding world, was moving, and it took several moments for Phoenix to decipher who or what it depicted. Eventually, she was able to make out the figures of Marinia, Alex, Dora, and Jasper, though each was constantly in motion—running from one side of the hall to the next, throwing paint at one another, shielding themselves with their hands, or dodging an oncoming spatter. Longer still it took her to realize that it was scarlet paint they were using, and in the upstairs hall of the Skimple apartment.

On the opposite side of the photograph, Marinia had written, _The bathroom really isn’t meant for Gryffindor colors._

Phoenix placed the picture on the window beside her four-poster, grabbed the three remaining presents, and ran down the stairs to the common room. When it was clear that Harry and Ron were in no hurry to meet her, she climbed the staircase to the boys’ dormitory and allowed herself inside.

“Hey, Harry, Ron,” she said, taking the two by surprise. The latter was kneeling on the end of his bed, excited and confused, but Harry looked as if he’d only just woken up. “Sorry, did I wake you?”

“Yeah,” he said, rubbing his eyes, “but it’s fine.”

The two scrambled into their bathrobes.

“Not to be rude or anything,” Ron muttered, “but why are you in here?”

“No one else in my dormitory,” she said, shrugging. “They all left to be with family. So I thought I’d pop in and celebrate with some friends.”

After a(n unnecessary) moment to recollect from the shock of seeing Phoenix in the boys’ dormitory, Harry and Ron grabbed their own presents and sat on the edge of their mattresses, facing each other. Phoenix kneeled in the space between them.

“Alright, so at home we have a system,” she explained, setting her parcels before her. “One of us opens a gift, the rest of us watch; we go in a circle like this until everyone’s finished.”

Neither of the boys were listening. Ron had already opened a box of Chocolate Frogs from Hermione and Harry had his eyebrows furrowed at a strange cut of paper money—obviously Muggle—that Ron ended up keeping. So Phoenix began unwrapping presents herself.

The first, unsurprisingly, was from Hermione: a small box of assorted Muggle candies with strange names like ‘Mars Bar’ and ‘Nerds.’ Harry pointed out a few he preferred and Phoenix, who had no money to buy them Christmas gifts, offered him a Mars Bar, which he took, and let Ron choose one thing, too.

Her second present was a box of homemade fudge.

“That’s from my mum,” Ron said, holding a knitted maroon jumper up to his torso. “I think she sent you one of these, as well. _That_ ,” he nodded toward the last gift, “should be it.”

Harry held up a similar looking parcel.

“Looks like you’ve got one, too, Harry.”

Ron was right; Harry received a blank emerald sweater, and Phoenix a rose pink jumper with a dark red N knit on the front. Both pulled theirs on over their heads immediately. Phoenix’s was a bit roomy, and the sleeves reached the second knuckle, but it was warm and thoughtful.

“I need to send her a thank you,” Phoenix said. “I didn’t really expect anything.”

“Everyone in my family gets one at Christmas.” Ron opened his Muggle candy bar to avoid looking at either of them.

 

The last gift to open was Harry’s, and Ron looked on with bored anticipation; Phoenix kept stealing downwards glances at her sweater and playing with the cuffs. She looked up just in time to see something silvery grey run, like water, from the open parcel to the floor.

Harry leaned down and grabbed the material, gawking as he held it.

“Is that what I think it is?” Phoenix asked. She crawled onto the bed beside him and watched, bewildered, over his shoulder as he held the strange fabric, letting sections of it slip through his fingers.

Ron stood in front of the two and reached out to touch the cloak.

“Yeah, I think it is,” he said. “They’re really rare, and _really_ valuable.”

“What is it?”

Phoenix spotted a mirror between two of the beds and had an idea. Before Ron had a chance to explain, she brought a finger to her lips and shushed him with a wicked smirk.

“It’s supposed to make you incredibly handsome,” she lied, attempting to disguise her giggle as a cough. “Go have a look.”

Harry made his way to the mirror and threw the cloak over his shoulders. His eyes grew wide as he stared back at his reflection: just a head, floating, it seemed, without a body.

“See,” Phoenix chuckled, leaning back onto the bed. “Better already.”

Ron began laughing beside her and Harry pulled the Invisibility Cloak over his head, moaning and ‘boo’-ing like the stereotypical Muggle ghost.

“It’s the Ghost of Christmas Past!” Phoenix shrieked, shaking with laughter as she drew the scarlet curtains of his four-poster in mock horror. Ron missed the reference, but enjoyed the spectacle all the same.

 

It took a few minutes for any of them to calm down enough to notice that a small, handwritten note had fallen from the Invisibility Cloak.

Phoenix was the only one to hear Fred and George on the landing; she grabbed the cloak from Harry’s shoulder and threw it under the bed. The latter stuffed the note in his pocket and would not remember it until long into the night.

 

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Phoenix was not stupid. She knew Harry would try to sneak into the library now that he had the Invisibility Cloak. She also knew that, with his track record, there was a chance he’d find the mirror out of pure dumb luck. Until she understood what exactly she was seeing, however, she did not want anyone else around to ask questions. So she left the Christmas feast early, claiming she had a headache coming on, and snuck into the disused classroom.

Phoenix stood in front of the mirror and watched as the mysterious man came into view.

“Hello,” she whispered. “Can you hear me?”

The man nodded, brushing long black locks from his eyes. This was only the second time she’d seen him in the mirror, but she was again struck by how handsome and healthy he seemed; it was clear (at least, according to the reflection) that he lived  in luxury, with enough to sustain his appearance. His clothes, while casual, were finely made and tailored to fit perfectly, and his physique was of someone who was wont to activity and properly fed. Overall, Phoenix surmised that he was wealthy, but reluctant to admit it.

Of course, Phoenix thought, this was all guesswork.

“Can you talk?”

He smiled sadly and said nothing.

“I’ll take that as a ‘no,’” she muttered. “Are you…”

Her voice trailed off. She wanted to ask, but did not really want to hear the answer; what would she do if she suddenly knew her father, but only in this one place—confined to a reflection, not to be touched or held or heard? What if this was the closest she would come to knowing her biological family?

But then, of course, she reasoned, it couldn’t be him. They were too dissimilar: related, perhaps, but distantly. _Not_ father and daughter.

 

Phoenix stayed until night had settled outside the high windows, casting the room in navy shadows. Stars twinkled like the flickering flame of distant candles. It was almost like looking up at the ceiling of the Great Hall, which always mimicked the sky outside and which was always littered with floating candlesticks.

“It must be curfew,” she said, her voice hoarse from disuse, as the door swung slowly open.

“Yes,” Professor Dumbledore replied, stepping into the room. “I see you’ve found the Mirror of Erised.”

“Is that what it’s called?” Phoenix was reluctant to tear her gaze from the reflection, but had just enough strength of will to look the headmaster in the eye. “I didn’t realize it was so late, I’m sorry. I’ll head to Gryffindor Tower immediately.”

“You’re not in trouble, Miss Skimple,” his voice was raspy. He closed the door behind him and perched on the edge of one of the few desks among the pile that remained upside-right. “If I’m not mistaken, this is not the first time you’ve found the Mirror?”

“No, sir.”

“Then I expect you’ve realized by now what it does?”

Phoenix thought for a moment, trying hard not to turn around; she knew she’d be lost again, staring into those eyes that looked so much like her own.

“It shows you your greatest desire,” she said.

Dumbledore nodded again, slowly, his silver-white beard trailing down and up his navy robes like a mess of jumbled stars against a vibrant night sky.

“But, sir, I don’t understand,” she muttered, brow furrowed, and turned back to see her reflection. “My...my _desire_...I don’t quite understand it.”

When she opened her mouth to continue, he raised his hand.

“Perhaps it is best it stays that way,” he grinned. When Phoenix shot him a questioning look, he explained. “Men have wasted away before it, entranced by what they have seen. Unlike them, you seem to understand the difference between what is real and what you want to be real.

“The Mirror will be moved to a new home tomorrow,” he continued.

“Why?” Her response was more urgent than she’d intended.

“It’s a few days ahead of schedule, I’ll admit, but a student has recently discovered it and been entranced.” Phoenix blushed. “I think it best it not remain where anyone else should find it. At least,” he chuckled, “not so easily.”

“But, Professor Dumbledore,” Phoenix tried again, determined to get an answer before leaving. If she never saw the Mirror again, this may be her last chance to know what it is she desired most. “I see someone...someone with me. And I...I don’t understand _why_ . Why him? Why _this_ man? Why is he happy, and healthy, and _handsome_ , and everything he shouldn’t be?”

She hadn’t realized she’d raised her voice, or spoken so quickly, until she finished. Out of breath, breathing heavily, red in the face, she looked to the headmaster for support and guidance.

His curious eyes narrowed to slits.

“Who is it that you see, Miss Skimple?” He seemed to know the answer already, but was suspicious of his own conclusion.

Phoenix’s throat suddenly felt bone dry. She truly wanted answers, but it felt now as if the price was too high, the whole thing too risky; she wasn’t sure she was willing to ask the question, not if it meant being asked a question in return. Not if it meant being asked _this_ particular question in return. But it was too late. She had to answer him to get an answer _from_ him.

“It’s—” she swallowed hard. “Sirius Black.”

Dumbledore smiled—the corners of his mouth twisted unconvincingly into something akin to pity.

“Sirius Black has not been seen so positively in years, Miss Skimple,” he said. “But you say you see him clearly, in good health and spirit?”

He waited. Phoenix nodded.

What he said was true, of course; Sirius Black was a dangerous man, throw into Azkaban Prison before Phoenix had even learned how to walk. All she’d seen of him previously were newspaper articles and wanted posters declaring him as such, and in each and every one of them his eyes betrayed sparks of both insanity and malice. If he was happy, it was because he was crazy. It was ridiculous, she reminded herself, to think he could be anything else.

That he’d retained his health and beauty in prison, too, was fantasy.

“It would seem,” Dumbledore continued, pulling Phoenix from her thoughts, “that your greatest desire is to see the best in the worst of men.”

“Is that all?”

Could it really mean nothing else? That all her fear and excitement at the prospect of knowing her roots could be forgotten?

The headmaster breathed in slowly and dropped his smile. Phoenix felt—with a distinct, inexplicable suspicion, like when you know you’re being watched from a distance—that Dumbledore could read her mind.

“That is all,” he said. “Don’t waste your time wondering about Sirius Black, Miss Skimple. It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live, remember that.”

 

*              A              *              S               *              B              *

 

Ron and Harry were anxious to share two very important developments with Phoenix when she reappeared the next morning for breakfast. The first was Ron’s apparent brilliance when it came to Wizard’s Chess; he’d beaten Harry a number of times the previous afternoon. The second had to do with Harry’s Invisibility Cloak and a certain Mirror.

He’d gone to the Restricted Section of the library, as she suspected, and nearly been caught by Filch. How he’d somehow found the Mirror was beyond her—the library entrance and the Mirror were on the same floor, but she’d nearly gotten lost _both_ times she’d tried to find it.

Phoenix feigned surprise and wonder when Harry explained how he’d seen his family staring back at him and did not explain the Mirror’s magic when he expressed his desire to bring her and Ron to meet them all that night. Of course, the Mirror would be gone by then, but Phoenix felt it best if neither of the boys knew she’d already discovered it. If there had been a time to do that, it’d already passed.

“I’m going to stay in tonight,” she said after dinner. “I’m extremely tired. Maybe tomorrow? No doubt you’ll want to see them again.”

“Sure,” Harry murmured halfheartedly. “Tomorrow then.”

Both of them knew it was a lie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you honestly think I wasn't gonna use the "dwell on dreams" quote? Come on, it's in the series title! I had to! lol 
> 
> I hope you guys enjoyed it.  
> Please PLEASE comment! I hear so little from you all, except the few of you who always leave a note (THANK YOU BTW, I LOVE IT). Anyway, I want to know what you think of Sirius Black being introduced...Do you believe Dumbledore, or are you convinced there has to be more to it than Phoenix's desire to believe him innocent? Is anyone disappointed, excited, ?? 
> 
> I know, I know, I'll stop now.
> 
> Love you all!  
> Kanene
> 
> Quotes from the original:  
> “They’re really rare, and really valuable,” and “What is it?” page 201.  
> “[But] I expect you’ve realized by now what it does?” and “Men have wasted away before it, entranced by what they have seen.” page 213.  
> “It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live, remember that.” page 214.


	13. Nicolas Flamel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I just went back through my story and found that a HUGE portion of Chapter 7 was erased when I uploaded it to A03.
> 
> I don't know what happened, or how much exactly was missing, but I've updated it tonight and I definitely think it's worth a read! Honestly, a lot going forward will focus on the ending of Chapter 7, so it might be good to read anyway.
> 
> I'm going to go through in the next few days and see if anything else is missing from other chapters.
> 
> Love,  
> Kanene

Phoenix thought of the Mirror in those long hours of the night when sleep alluded her. She paced the circular dormitory, moving in and out of the dim, milky light that filtered through the windows, and contemplated her own insanity. She expected to think of Sirius Black, the notorious mass murderer who had _somehow_ made his way into her reflection; he was a mystery in and of himself, and Phoenix thought he may also be the key to understanding her own. It would have made sense for something so intense and severe to occupy her mind.

But instead she thought of Hermione.

_Why?_

Harry’s desire was the easiest to predict: he had been placed with a family that despised him for what he was—an abnormal, a delinquent, a _freak_ —and prized their biological son above him. From what he’d told Phoenix—in small, accidental-seeming admissions—neither his aunt nor uncle had expected his arrival. It was no surprise he’d see his late mother and father, who presumably loved and _wanted_ him, and their family.

To Phoenix’s surprise, Ron had also seen the Mirror of Erised (she thought Dumbledore would have moved it before Harry had a chance to visit again, but it was possible he’d want Ron to find the Mirror, too). He was the youngest of six sons, and senior only to his sister Ginny. With so many older brothers, most of whom had made their own academic distinctions as prefect, Head Boy, Quidditch player, or exceptional trouble-maker(s), it was hard for Ron to find any alley that provided him his own. One way or another, he’d always be following in a sibling’s footsteps, or living in their shadow. Even Ginny, who was no more than a child, had the distinction of being the only daughter: she was the one Mr. and Mrs. Weasley had tried so long to have.

To see himself as the greatest of his older brothers—see himself risen above, not their achievements, but the extremely high bar each had set—and make himself a place of his own, where everyone can see Ronald Weasley, and not “So-and-So’s Little/Big Brother”...Phoenix could have know with certainty what he’d see without being told.

But Hermione?

She had everything the other three lacked: her family loved her without question; she had an incredible understanding of the Muggle world _and_ the intelligence to quickly acquire the history and culture of the wizarding world; she was an only child, and so never second-best to a sibling; and, finally, she may not have been _rich_ , but she’d also never known financial struggle the way Phoenix and Ron had (even Harry, whose family was much better off than the Skimples or Weasleys, was given little to no money of his own, and it was not until his first visit to Diagon Alley that he knew he had inherited a good-sized fortune). Phoenix didn’t think Hermione’s life was easy...just _different._

What would she want more than anything?

 

Phoenix’s dreams were completely estranged, and she found comfort in knowing that at least _some_ part of her was adequately troubled. Every night from Christmas to the end of holiday break was the same: Sirius Black, as she’d always seen him, with wild eyes and dissheveled, dark locks, standing in an alleyway. The edges of her dream are inky drops of black sky, and Phoenix can see a flickering light post somewhere beyond the corner of the building where Black stands.

For a moment, he watches the crowd shuffling up and down the street. He takes a long, heavy breath, pulls out his wand, and the street is suddenly flooded with bright green light. A dozen passersby drop to the ground.

The scene changes. He’s standing above her now, his eyes calm and appearance repaired. Phoenix forgets to search the scenery around them, but she remembers the vague impression of dark green walls and silver trim. He reaches out to touch her and she can _feel_ the weight of his hand on her shoulder.

“The best in the worst of men,” he whispers, smiling sadly.

“I suppose.”

 

Harry, too, was suffering from strange dreams. He confessed it one morning over breakfast that he’d had one every night since the Mirror of Erised was moved, and _every night_ it was the same: his parents, a flash of green light, and then nothing. Phoenix and he both understood what that light was, now, and it took very little time for the two of them to succumb to the gravity of their nightmares.

Harry had been dreaming of his parents’ death for so many years—was Phoenix envisioning the same?

 

*              A              *              S              *               B              *

 

_Happy Christmas, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley!_

 

_I hope you had a wonderful holiday. Ron said you were in Romania with Charlie. That must have been incredible!_

 

Ron’s older brother Charlie worked with dragons. Phoenix wasn’t entirely sure what exactly his job entailed—and, frankly, neither did Ron—but the idea of working with such powerful, beautiful creatures was thrilling. Most people were too frightened to be around dragons for too long, considering their size and strength—at least, not without several trained wizards standing between them and the beasts—but Phoenix thought they were simply misunderstood.

 

_I wanted to thank you for the jumper and the homemade fudge. I really didn’t expect anything this Christmas and it was such a wonderful surprise!_

 

_I don’t know if you know this, but Fred and George are really proud of them...the sweaters, I mean. They’ve worn theirs everyday and always point out when I’m wearing mine. Harry, too. They sometimes wear each other’s, though, so that their first initials are switched, and it’s really funny to see how many people actually don’t know which twin is which. They tried to trick me, too, but it didn’t work._

 

_Wishing you the best (and, again, thank you!),_

_Phoenix Skimple_

 

Phoenix reread her letter several times, wondering whether or not it was too personal to send to someone she’d never even met. She considered revising the _“didn’t expect anything_ ” line so that her parents didn’t seem entirely removed, but decided against it—she was being honest, and it made the thank-you that much more sincere.

Less than a week after Christmas Day, the sky outside was pale and clear. Snow covered the ground, reflecting the dim yellow evening light, but not a single cloud hung overhead to threaten storm. Hemera still, however, seemed very reluctant to fly. She turned away from Phoenix as the girl tied the message to her outstretched leg.

“I’m sorry,” Phoenix whispered. “I know it’s cold out, but the Weasleys’ house is probably warmer than the Owlery here. And you’ll get at least a few hours’ rest...How about that?”

Hemera turned back toward Phoenix slowly, considering the circumstance with narrowed eyes; after a moment, she snapped her beak happily, rubbed her head against the girl’s palm, and hopped out of the tall, stone-framed window. Phoenix watched as the baby owl stretched her wings midair and began to glide beyond the many towers and twisting roofs below.

 

*              A              *              S               *              B              *

 

_Forget that dog, an' you forget what it’s guardin’, that’s between Professor Dumbledore and Nicolas Flamel—_

 

Hagrid had given them a lot to think about over break. _Why_ it had taken them so long to find Flamel, Phoenix couldn’t surmise, unless they’d somehow forgotten that Dumbledore had also been mentioned. She doubted the headmaster would _need_ an outsider to help protect whatever it was Fluffy was guarding and he’d never trust someone with whom he had no prior experience to something so important; Flamel, therefore, would show up somewhere in his past. It was simple: find Dumbledore, and there’s _bound_ to be mention (eventually) of Nicolas Flamel.

And there was.

When Hermione returned to Hogwarts, she found a tall stack of dusty, weathered tomes leaning against the edge of Phoenix’s bed. The latter was sitting with her back to the door, scribbling something excitedly on a piece of spare parchment.

“What are all these?” Hermione asked, taking off her cloak.

“ _These_ ,” Phoenix grinned, putting the parchment and quill on the floor, “are every available book I could find on Albus Dumbledore’s achievements, starting with his more recent work as Headmaster of Hogwarts and going all the way back to his little _dabbles_ in alchemy.”

“And?”

“Not much really.” Phoenix sighed dramatically and threw herself back onto her bed. Hermione giggled, blushing, and sat beside her. “But did you know that alchemy is a study devoted _completely_ to making this little _thing_ called the Sorcerer’s Stone?”

Hermione crossed her arms.

“And?” she repeated.

“And,” Phoenix held out the vowel. She sat up, grabbed a volume from the pile, and opened it to the bookmarked page. “Did you know that the only person known to be successful is someone called...oh, what’s his name?”

She pretended to scan the page; Hermione, beside her, inhaled sharply and let out a squeal.

“Nicolas Flamel,” they said together.

Hermione threw her arms around Phoenix’s shoulders and shrieked again, making the smaller girl cringe.

“Not in my ear, ’Mione.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she mumbled, dragging the book across the sheets so that it sat between them. “How did you find this?”

“It’s quite funny, really,” Phoenix laughed, tossing the book onto Hermione’s lap. “This was on your bed. You took it out a couple of weeks ago, if I’m not mistaken.”

“No. I think—er—I mean...” Hermione turned a pretty shade of pink. After an audible deep breath, she tried again. “Good thinking. That was really smart of you to...to look for it like that.”

“Thank you. I hope the boys think so, too.”

“Oh, yeah,” Hermione paled. “The boys.”

 

Harry, Ron, and Hermione were finally able to give up their search. There were no visual descriptions of the Sorcerer’s Stone in any of the tomes Phoenix had found, but it was possible it was small—like how Harry described the contents of the Gringotts vault where the break-in had most likely occurred—and its abilities to _“transform any metal into pure gold”_ and _“produce the Elixir of Life, which will make the drinker immortal”_ , as described in Hermione’s library book, would make it a desirable and potentially dangerous target for thieves. Who wouldn’t want an endless life of wealth? The four friends had no doubt in their minds that the Sorcerer’s Stone was hidden somewhere in Hogwarts.

The boys were able to catch up on their homework—Harry and Ron both groaned when Phoenix announced, with a mischievous grin, that they’d both have time to do their own essays now—but spent much of their free time discussing what they’d do if _they_ had the Sorcerer’s Stone, or devising new theories as to how Professor Snape would try to steal it. It was no secret the Potions Master hated the Gryffindors—that he would put his students in danger to obtain something so precious was more believable, Phoenix thought, because of this mutual hatred, but it was unfair to make such a terrible assumption based off his House preferances. She wanted to believe that he was innocent, but, Harry reminded her, this theory went both ways.

The more Phoenix tried to support Snape, the more she seemed to stoke Harry and Ron’s dislike toward him. They thought, without a doubt, that he’d tried to kill Harry at the previous Quidditch match, after which the professor’s ire also seemed to grow. To make matters worse, rumours had spread about the upcoming game between Gryffindor and Slytherin. Everyone knew that Slytherin House had won the Quidditch Cup seven years in a row, and this match was Gryffindor’s chance to take the lead. It was, perhaps, the most important game of the season...and Snape had somehow talked his way into being referee.

“It’s unfair!” George shouted, letting the portrait slam behind him. The team had just entered Gryffindor Tower after practice and each member, including Wood, were red and shaking with fury. “He’ll sway the game for his House! How could they let this happen?”

“Five Sickles says Harry catches the Snitch before anyone can score,” Phoenix laughed awkwardly, trying to be rid of some of the room’s tension. “Honestly, they won’t let him be too bad, will they? Especially if Lee’s commenta—”

“Rubbish!” Angelina said. “He can do whatever he wants. You don’t question the ref. That’s how it’s done!”

“It’s unfair!” Fred repeated.

The common room buzzed like this for nearly an hour, and by the next day the entire school was murmuring their disapproval. Phoenix, in a show of support for her House, persuaded Peeves to follow Snape around the day before the match singing an original song of his own creation _(OH, LOOK OUT THERE, WEASLEY/THE REFEREE’S SLEAZY)_ at the top of his lungs as the professor stalked the corridors between classes.

“What’ll you think he’ll do if he finds out _you_ sent Peeves after him?” Parvati giggled as they passed Snape on his way to lunch. The poltergeist was not three steps behind.

“Nothing, probably,” Lavender laughed. “He _adores_ her, don’t you know?”

Phoenix was done being reminded about Snape’s favoritism. It wasn’t _her_ fault he like her. She didn’t even know what she’d done to deserve it! But Gryffindors and Slytherins alike taunted her as the match grew nearer, and she found the idea of watching from Hagrid’s house more and more appealing as time went on.

“Oh, come on!” Hermione whined just before the match was scheduled to begin. “You have to come!”

“No, I don’t.”

“What if Snape tries to kill Harry?” she asked, then realized her mistake. “What is _someone_ tries to kill Harry? Ron and I need you to help keep watch for signs of danger.”

“You’re only trying to include me,” Phoenix said. “You’re just being nice. You don’t _need_ me.”

“Fine,” Hermione blushed. She crossed her arms, looking anywhere _but_ at the girl in front of her. “I _want_ you to come. Is that better?”

A pause.

“Much.”

The two walked together to the stadium, where Ron and Neville were already seated. Phoenix was glad she’d joined them in the end; Harry caught the Golden Snitch so fast that the crowd was sufficiently distracted and Neville and Ron, somehow, had gotten into a fight with Malfoy’s gang; she and Hermione were so busy chatting and watching the match that they hadn’t noticed the scene behind them.

In retrospect, Phoenix couldn’t remember much about the game at all, more how Hermione excitedly discussed the different jinxes and counter-jinxes she’d prepared specifically for the game and the look on her face—a remarkable mixture of excitement of relief—when Lee announced Gryffindor’s victory.

“Knew he wouldn’t do anything with Dumbledore here,” Ron said triumphantly, leaning over the girls from the row behind.

“Dumbledore?” Phoenix asked. She searched the stands and found his familiar silver beard and half-moon spectacles in the seats across the stadium. “He didn’t show up to the last one...does he usually come to the matches?”

“Dunno,” Ron admitted. “But after last time, I don’t think he’s taking a chance.”

“Especially with Snape refereeing,” Phoenix quipped. She caught Hermione’s blush out of the corner of her eye.

Neville whined; he was an odd, splotchy combination of sickly pale, scarlet, and blue, and obviously out of breath. It took a moment for Phoenix to realize that he was sitting, not on the seat behind her—where he should have been—but on the floor.

“Are you okay?” Phoenix asked, offering him a hand up, which he accepted.

“Just a bit sore.”

“He’ll be alright. Nice job taking Crabbe and Goyle on yourself,” Ron praised, patting him on the back. Hermione shot him a feirce look that clearly said _I just taught myself how to jinx a fully-grown wizard, do you want to be my test dummy?_

He coughed and turned away, sputtering, “Oh, um, Neville. You okay? We should probably get you to the hospital wing.”

“You, too, Ron,” Phoenix laughed, pointing out a purple-black bruise that was already forming on his lower jaw. “Just pray you don’t get any points from Gryffindor.”

“I’ll tell her I tripped or something,” he mumbled, filing out with the crowd.

“Yeah.” Phoenix rolled her eyes. “Madam Pince will _totally_ believe that.”

Ron muttered some choice words under his breath as he helped Neville limp, wincing and whimpering, out of the stadium. Hermione and Phoenix sat back down, watching as the crowd thinned around them.

“You know,” said the latter, “I really—er— _appreciate_...what you did. I mean, forgiving me like that.”

Hermione shifted in her seat, but, as she did, Phoenix lowered her eyes to the ground below, where several of the players were still gathered, arguing and celebrating.

“For what?”

Phoenix swallowed audibly and drew her feet up beneath her.

“For, you know…” she breathed. “Making fun of you on Halloween. I never really said I was sorry, and I should have. It was so wrong of me and—”

“Nyx, stop. It’s fine.”

Hermione rested her cheek on Phoenix’s shoulder and gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. But Phoenix, if anything, was even more upset.

“No, it’s not, Hermione!” she nearly shouted. The Muggle-born, to her surprise, did not move off her shoulder, and Phoenix decided she rather enjoyed the weight. It was almost, well... _comforting_ . “Just because we’re friends, doesn’t mean I should be able to treat you like that! I made you feel _terrible._ I made you _cry_. If Malfoy had done the same, would you tell him it’s fine?”

Hermione thought for a moment, then shook her head.

“You’re worth something, ’Mione,” Phoenix whispered so low the other girl strained to hear. To the Muggle-born, she almost sounded embarrassed, as if the words bubbling out had somehow clawed their way to the surface, as if Phoenix wanted nothing more than to choke them down. “You’re worth a lot of somethings. To me.

“And to the boys,” she added as an afterthought.

Hermione giggled into her upper arm.

“You’re worth a lot of somethings, too,” she teased, pulling the smaller girl into a hug.

Phoenix was not used to hugs. She’d received them every so often from Marinia, and on the rare occasion she was allowed to visit Tonks, but those were all to say ‘hello’ or ‘goodbye’; they expressed happiness at seeing someone again after a long period of separation, or genuine displeasure at having to part once again. _That_ was the type of physical affection to which Phoenix was wont—with which she felt comfortable. Of course, she’d seen families and friends that were more affectionate, but she’d never personally experienced it.

But this? This was entirely different. This was _new,_ and Phoenix wasn’t sure what to think of it. For a second, Phoenix thought that Hermione might actually mean to say goodbye; after the hug, she’d stand and walk away, finally realizing all the hurt the young witch had caused her and her residual anger, despite having forgotten it for so long. When it was clear that Hermione was not mad, however, Phoenix had to change her understanding. Because this _was_ different: this was gratitude, and pride, and forgiveness, and everything she didn’t know she was capable of earning. Besides her professors, who could do little more than smile and award House points, the only ones to praise her abilities in person were her siblings, and even then it’d been in hushed tones, as if her success were some gruesome taboo.

Phoenix wasn’t sure how to react. She stiffened for the few moments Hermione’s arms were wrapped around her, and only once it was over did she remember to breathe.

“I’m sorry,” Hermione mumbled, blushing.

“No, don’t be,” Phoenix mumbled. “I just wasn’t expecting it, that’s all.”

They fell into comfortable silence and stayed in the stands until the afternoon sky overhead burned—first orange, then a dark, dull red—and finally bruised. Evenings in late winter came quickly. The first years knew it would not be long before they would be left in the dark.

Hermione was the first to move. She stood, quite unexpectedly, startling Phoenix out of her thoughts, and said, “Well, Harry’s still in the locker rooms. I suppose someone should go get him.”

Phoenix nodded.

“I’ll—er—I’ll meet you inside, then?”

“Sure.” Phoenix didn’t move. “I’ll be there real soon, okay?”

This time, Hermione nodded, but Phoenix did not turn to see it. She could hear the girl’s sluggish footsteps as she plodded through the stands and down the creaking steps. Once she reached the soft ground below, however, Phoenix chanced a glance over the rails to make sure the other girl tread safely. What could go wrong, she didn’t know, but Phoenix had a very strange feeling in the pit of her stomach that warned danger.

Hermione entered the locker rooms cautiously, checking first that no other players had stayed behind; when she was completely out of sight, absorbed by shadow, Phoenix scanned the area. There was no one by the Forbidden Forest—with the exception of Hagrid, of course, who lived on its skirts—and nothing out of place anywhere on the visible fields outside of the greenhouses, though much of that, too, was cast in evening shadow.

With a final glance, Phoenix caught something dark out of the corner of her eye: the unmistakable sweep of a wizard’s cloak. Whoever it was had just made their way down the castle steps and was hurrying toward the Forbidden Forest at such an impatient pace that Phoenix might have missed it if she’d looked just a moment later. It was strange, to say the least, and possibly dangerous to follow…

Which is why Phoenix decided against bringing Harry and Hermione along. The two were still somewhere in the Gryffindor locker room, most likely discussing the game (or, Phoenix thought guiltily, discussing _Phoenix_ ); if they stayed put for just _one minute_ she’d make it beyond the trees and out of sight. She practically jumped down the ladder and sprinted behind the figure, who, by now, had disappeared into the forest.

As the first year stepped over the first row of bramble, she drew her wand from her robes and held it out before her. She’d yet to spot the wizard after his initial disappearance, but she doubted they’d gotten very far; they could have seen her following and hidden behind some tree, ready to attack.

But no attack came.

Surely she was being overdramatic! The person had come from _Hogwarts_ , a school that had so many protective charms and enchantments placed on it that it would be nearly _impossible_ for anyone to enter without the headmaster’s approval. It was ridiculous to believe he’d let in anyone dangerous.

But the sensation in her stomach had not subsided. She moved through the trees, hopping from one enormous shadow to the next, hoping to hear or see _something_ that would lead her to the mysterious figure.

And then she heard it: not the strong, commanding, eerie voice she expected from someone who’d slither out into the forest in secret, but a nervous, whimpering stutter.

Phoenix stopped, knelt down in a high tangle of tree roots and underbrush, and tried to ignore the pounding in her chest. The man was Quirrell, there was no doubt about it; his voice was _constantly_ thick with fear, and more so now than ever. Phoenix was certain the effect could not be replicated naturally.

His maundering quickly became incoherent.

“Very well.” Unlike Quirrell, his companion was calm and formidable; Phoenix understood why the D.A.D.A. professor would be intimidated. The smooth, unaffected drawl could come from none other than the Potions Master, Professor Snape. “We’ll have another little chat soon, when you’ve had time to think things over and decided where your loyalties lie.”

With the distinct _swish_ of a cloak, Snape turned and hastily made his way back to the castle. Quirrell, however, did not follow. Above the natural noise and chaos of the forest rose Quirrell’s silence; he stood so perfectly still, and made so little noise, that Phoenix was not sure she hadn’t been detected.

She peered carefully over the thick bramble; his back was to her, which gave her some time, at least, to run if she needed to without being identified. If Quirrell saw her from the back as she retreated, the most he’d be able to deduce was that she was a student, probably young, and female.

Phoenix gave herself to the count of three, then slunk on hands and knees past the bushes, over the tree roots, and beyond a line of titanic oaks. When she was certain that Quirrell was too far away to hear or see, she pushed herself to stand and bolted toward the castle. The professor did not follow.

 

*              A              *              S              *              B              *

 

 

Of course, to Harry and Ron, the fact that Snape had been involved took precedence over all else. They had already been convinced he’d tried to kill Harry  _ and _ that he was after the Sorcerer’s Stone; now they had reason to believe that Quirrell was the last obstacle in his way.

“He’s guarding the Stone?” Ron shouted. Hermione hushed him as three third years looked up from what seemed to be three very tedious, very  _ long _ essays. “I bet you  _ anything  _ Snape’s found a way to get past Fluffy, if he’s already going after Quirrell.”

“Or maybe,” Harry added, eyes wide, “Quirrell is the one who knows how to get past Fluffy.”

“He’s Hagrid’s dog, not Quirrell’s,” Phoenix quipped.She sunk further into her armchair in exasperation and explained, once again, why that theory—in her opinion—didn’t hold up. “There’s no way he’s made it past the three-headed dog. And if he has, there are, no doubt, countless more enchantments. Dumbledore isn’t a fool; he would have set up the best protections for something as important as the Sorcerer’s Stone. 

“It makes sense that Quirrell would be involved,” she continued, “Who better to protect something inside of Hogwarts than the professors themselves? They’re incredibly smart, gifted in magic, and know the school inside and out. They’d be able to tell if one of their own was trying to get to the Stone...Dumbledore may have even employed some of them to set up some of the protective measures themselves.” 

Harry and Ron gave Hermione a sideways glance that clearly said,  _ Maybe she’ll listen to you _ , but the girl said nothing. Instead, she stared into the fire, mouthing something inaudible under her breath. 

“I very much doubt Snape could manage outsmarting or outperforming all of that, on top of all his work, which we  _ know _ he hasn’t been skiving off,” Phoenix finished, puncuating her statement with an agressive sigh. 

Harry, Ron, and Hermione stared, much less convinced of Snape’s innocence than of Phoenix’s stubborness. There was no use arguing with her on this issue. She wondered whether she should mention her interaction with Quirrell at the Quidditch game, or if they’d just shrug it off as a desperate attempt to divert their attention from Snape.

“Well, I can see you don’t believe me, so I’m going to bed,” she huffed. Phoenix stood, waved at the twins, who’d been watching the argument from a distance, and made her way to the stone staircase to the right. 

 

*              A              *              S              *              B              *

 

To no one’s surprise, Hermione followed not long after Phoenix. The smaller girl lay on her back with her eyes closed, listening to the quiet footsteps as the Muggle-born walked slowly around her bed. She was not pretending to sleep, and Hermione knew she was wide awake, but neither of them spoke until the latter was changed into her night clothes and relaxed beneath her scarlet sheets.

“Good night,” Hermione whispered.

No response.

Just as she was about to shut the curtains of her four-poster, Phoenix opened her eyes and peered around the dormitory. Fay Dunbar and Lavender Brown, who snored, had their hangings drawn, and Parvati was a deep sleeper; Phoenix and Hermione could talk for some time, as long as they were quiet.

But as Phoenix opened her mouth to speak, Hermione shushed her.

“In the morning,” she said, stifling a yawn.

She left Phoenix to dream once more of the strange flash of green light and to wonder what someone like Hermione Granger, know-it-all and only child, could possibly want above all else.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quotes from the Original:
> 
> “Transform any metal into pure gold...produce the Elixir of Life, which will make the drinker immortal.” page 220.  
> "Very well,...We’ll have another little chat soon, when you’ve had time to think things over and decided where your loyalties lie.” page 226.


	14. Norbert the Norwegian Ridgeback

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey, so I'm finally updating. Remember when I said I'd get this chapter in by Monday "if nothing terrible happened"...well guess what? 
> 
> Anyway, I'm sorry about the wait. Here's an extra long chapter to make up for it.
> 
> Warning: cliffhanger.
> 
> Also: I've considered writing bonus works to add little scenes to the story. In the original series, Harry is trapped at 4 Privet Drive and doesn't have a lot he can do over the summer, so each book starts about two weeks before the beginning of term...this just doesn't work for Phoenix. I want to do extra works (probably single-chapter, but I'm not yet certain) to fill in some of the missing time at the beginning of summer break. I've also been thinking of gifting those stories to people who follow the series...so, raise your hand if you're opposed, I guess. Or raise your hand if you want something gifted to you, I'll try to accommodate everyone I can. :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so I royally messed up on Chapter 13...in the second to last section, when Phoenix is defending Snape, I accidentally had them talk about the “other professors’ protections,” a conversation that was meant for Chapter 14. I am really sorry. I’ve gone back and changed the conversation so that they’re less sure about what exactly is guarding the Stone, since Hagrid doesn’t actually tell them until Chapter 14 in the original, but nothing else has been altered...if you could kindly go back and reread, it should take less than a minute.
> 
> Again, really sorry for that.

There was little less than three months left until the end of term, and Phoenix began to feel as if she’d wasted her first year at Hogwarts so far. It wasn’t as if she’d done _nothing_ —on the contrary, she’d finished all of her schoolwork successfully, received high marks in all of her classes, made more friends in a matter of months than she’d made in her entire life, attended every Quidditch match,  _and_ done research on the Sorcerer’s Stone to prevent thieves from using its magic to potentially put Hogwarts (and the wizarding world) in danger; most students in her year would baulk if they were told how much free time she still had after accomplishing all of this.

In Phoenix’s mind, however, none of this mattered. This was the only school term she would have the opportunity to spend with Marinia and, with the exception of a few precoordinated occasions and some chance meetings in the corridors between classes, Phoenix had not really seen Marinia since leaving London. But Marinia was busy studying for N.E.W.T.s and planning life after Hogwarts. Even Jasper, who’d always made time for his older sister, was having difficulty finding holes in his schedule to spend with either of them.  

Unlike her siblings, Phoenix was used to being alone during the school year. She was six when Jasper began his first year at Hogwarts, and from the day he first boarded the Hogwarts Express, Phoenix was deemed old enough to stay home while Mr. and Mrs. Skimple worked. Despite having previously been a stay-at-home mother, Mrs. Skimple suddenly found a job in a small, relatively unpopular shop on the far end of Diagon Alley. She elected to leave Phoenix with the Muggle shopkeeper who owned the bookstore beneath their apartment and came home long after the young girl’s normal dinner time.

Being around so many children her own age was new to Phoenix. For five years, she would have given almost  _anything_ to see Marinia or Jasper during the school day, and, now that she could, she’d prioritized her new friends above them...this is where the guilt settled in:

Who knew what would happen after Hogwarts? Marinia could leave after the end of term and train for political work in some faraway country and Phoenix wouldn’t see her for _years_. Or, she could choose to go and live with Alexandria and be shunned by the Skimple family, who Phoenix was certain wouldn’t accept their unusual romance. After the Quidditch match, the panic began to set in, but she refused to discuss this with anyone. Of course, saying it out loud would only make it real.

So she bit her tongue and sulked, avoiding the boys and Hermione, who were still angry that she had taken Snape’s side in their last argument.

 

Professor McGonagall was the first to notice that something was wrong. While Phoenix was becoming less and less attentive, Marinia and Jasper, who were both in her N.E.W.T-level Transfiguration classes, had their noses buried in their books from dawn until curfew.

 _It must be so difficult_ , she thought,  _to be so much younger than your siblings...beginning your studies just as they’re leaving. No doubt the girl’s a bit lonely._

But as time went on, Miss Skimple became more and more distant, and McGonagall resolved to speak with her after the Quidditch match between Slytherin and Gryffindor. The only problem was that Phoenix was not in class.

“Miss Granger,” the professor called after the bell. “Could I speak with you a moment?”

Hermione nodded and gestured for the boys to go on without her; McGonagall waited for the rest of the class to file out before continuing.

“Has something happened to Miss Skimple?” she asked. “I was not informed of any problems, but it is very unlike her to miss a lesson.”

Hermione thought a moment before responding.

“She’s in the hospital wing,” she nearly whispered, so that McGonagall strained to hear. Her voice cracked when she said  _hospital_ , and, for a moment, the deputy headmistress considered that Hermione might be lying. Little Asteria (or, what was it they called her...Phoenix?)  _was_ in her House after all, and she’d know if something had occurred.

“For what purpose?”

“After breakfast,” Hermione said, clearing her throat. “She...she, um...sort of just  _fainted_. She’d been dizzy, she said, and she turned a bit pale. We were actually on our way to see Madam Pomfrey about it when she just…

“Madam Pomfrey trusted me to tell you before class, but I came in just as you were beginning the lecture,” she admitted. “I was about to tell you when you called me over, I swear.”

“It’s alright, Miss Granger,” McGonagall said, placing a hand on the first year’s shoulder. “Is there anything else you would like to tell me before I let you leave?”

Hermione stared at McGonagall, her brow furrowed and eyes focused, as if she’d been waiting for this exact invitation.

“Phoenix hasn’t been eating,” she said. “I’ve been a bit worried, but she said her stomach hasn’t been feeling well.”

“You don’t sound as if you believe that.”

“I don’t.”

A pause. Touching the doorframe timidly on either side, Professor Quirrell cleared his throat, hoping to get McGonagall’s attention. Her lips formed a thin, straight line, and she fixed him with a deadly glare.

“S-so s-sorry,” he muttered, “I’ll c-come back later.”

McGonagall watched him leave.

“How long has this been going on?”

“I’m not sure,” Hermione admitted after a moment of thought. “But...but I think it started during the holidays. Her meals have been getting smaller and smaller since I got back and Harry said she was acting a bit strange over break.”

That statement certainly got the professor’s attention; she knew that Phoenix had stayed at Hogwarts for Christmas. She also knew that the headmaster had had to move the Mirror of Erised a few days earlier than he had originally scheduled because it had been found by a student. If Phoenix was that student—if she had wasted all of those hours staring at the intangible reflection of her deepest desire, living in a world that could never be—then it was possible she’d come out affected. Wizards much older than her had gone insane because of the Mirror.

McGonagall dismissed Hermione and resolved to visit Phoenix in the hospital wing that afternoon, should the girl still be there.

 

*              A              *              S              *              B              *

 

_Dear Phoenix,_

 

_Thank you for the lovely note. It really made our day! Ronald rarely ever writes us, and you have my permission to remind him to do so every once in a while._

 

_He’s told us all about you, though, of course. Fred and George, too. All good things, I assure you, dear, they all seem to adore you so very much. If you would like to come and visit during the summer, we would absolutely love to meet you! It’s a bit of a tight fit here, but you can always share Ginny’s room (she’s Ron’s little sister, if he hasn’t told you). She’ll be starting Hogwarts next year, so you may be seeing her around the Gryffindor common room for the next few years._

 

_You are welcome at our home any time. Just send an owl!_

 

_Also, your father has mentioned that Marinia will be applying for a job at the Ministry this summer, depending on her N.E.W.T.s. We have no doubt a smart girl like her will receive top marks, but would you please give her our best wishes? And if she still intends to work in the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office, my husband would love to help show her the ropes ahead of time...give her a tour around the department and all that. He’s been very enthusiastic about finding someone like her with a passion for Muggles._

 

_With love,_

_Mr. and Mrs. Weasley_

 

Phoenix had Hermione read the letter out loud; she had just woken up and—despite the large dose Madam Pomfrey had given her of some nauseating potion, which smelled strongly of rotting carrot—her head was pounding against the inside of her skull. As she stared at the other girl, however, she found her head and heart were in sync.

“What?” Hermione asked, pulling Phoenix from her daydream.

“Oh, nothing,” she lied, “I’m just thinking about what they said. It’s quite nice of them to send something back.”

“‘ _You have my permission to remind him to do so every once in a while_ ,’” Hermione read back, smiling. “I think his mother wants you to  _shame_ Ron into writing home.”

“Of course,” Phoenix laughed breathily, wary of the pain in her head and stomach. “From what Ron’s told us—”

She never finished her sentence, and Hermione followed her gaze to the hospital wing’s entrance, where Professor McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey were discussing something animatedly at one end of another student’s bed. Whatever it was the latter had said seemed to have really upset McGonagall; she was leaning over Pomfrey, her face laden with worry, and, though her words were lost with distance, Phoenix could hear the tremor in her voice. Something had happened, something terrible, and, with what subtle glances the nurse had thrown her way, it had something to do with Phoenix.

“You told her.” It wasn’t a question, nor was it accusing, but Hermione shrunk visibly in her seat and set the letter on Phoenix’s bed. “It isn’t that important, Hermione. I haven’t been eating because I haven’t been feeling well, not because I’m starving myself. I know you’re worried, but you don’t have to be.”

Hermione looked down into her lap for a moment, as if to recollect herself, then whispered, “Of course I do,” and stared into Phoenix’s eyes, challenging the other girl to contradict her.

They could both hear McGonagall making her way toward the bed, and their collective gaze shifted toward the professor.

“She’s given you her permission to leave whenever you feel up to it,” she said, staring down her nose at Phoenix through her spectacles.

“Thank you,” Hermione muttered.

“I have spoken with Professor Dumbledore,” McGonagall continued. “He would like to have a word with you soon.”

“Today?”

“No, Miss Skimple, not today,” she smiled. “But I would like to remind you that we professors have a clear view of the Gryffindor table during meals. Is that understood?”

Phoenix nodded, eyes downcast.

“Feel better, Miss Skimple.”

And with that, she left. Hermione stayed for some time by Phoenix’s side, until the pain in her head subsided and she was able to make her way steadily toward the Great Hall for dinner.

 

“Just ignore him,” Hermione whispered as Draco Malfoy, staged at the end of the Slytherin table, delicately touched the back of one hand to his forehead, threw the other hand behind him, and pretended to faint—slowly and meldodramatically. A roar of laughter rose from the far side of the Great Hall and Phoenix, who was still a bit dizzy, plowed her way suddenly through the crowd of students coming in for dinner.

The Slytherins watched her approach with a mixture of foolish arrogance and fear; those who knew her had the widest eyes. Even Draco and his thickset cronies seemed torn between their need to display their brawn and their desire to cower. They all knew that Phoenix was capable of some very powerful magic, and that she was a favorite of both McGonagall  _and_ Snape—the Heads of House for Gryffindor and Slytherin—so there was reason to be wary of any retaliation she may have intended.

But Phoenix did nothing. By the time she’d reached the far table, the whole hall was watching in anticipation. It was then that Phoenix realized the largest crowds can produce the greatest silences. With all eyes on her, Phoenix found a vacant seat between the Slytherin Ghost, the Bloody Barron, and a third-year boy she recognized, only by name, as Peregrine Derrick.

“Pass the salt, would you, Pansy?”

For a moment, the Slytherin girl sat motionless, wondering whether or not to do as asked: on one hand, Phoenix didn’t  _seem_ like a threat, but, on the other, would the rest of her House ridicule her for going along with this? Were they all just going to accept a  _Gryffindor_ sitting at  _their_ table?

When the wait proved too long, the prefect beside Pansy tssked, grabbed the salt with a dramatic sigh, and handed it gently to Phoenix, who beamed. The fifth year then turned to Pansy and said, “Wasn’t so hard, now, was it?”

The Slytherins around them laughed, and Phoenix noted how the tension around the Great Hall had dissolved; students were talking and eating again, watching the action at the Slytherin table less attentively. McGonagall, at the High Table, smiled and turned to Snape, who nodded and resumed his lackluster conversation with Professor Sinistra, gazing proudly at Phoenix every now and again when no one else was looking.

 

The common room was deathly silent that night. Students were stationed around the circular room, all waiting for Phoenix to appear; they knew that Harry, Ron, and Hermione, who had already found themselves squashy scarlet armchairs by the fireplace, would have words with the other girl...what they would say, well, that was unknowable.

It was five minutes to curfew when the Fat Lady’s portrait swung open suddenly, revealing what appeared, at first glance, to be a walking pile of dusty, old tomes. Fred and George hurried to help Phoenix; one twin grabbed the books while the other offered her a hand down.

“Thank you,” Phoenix said, flattening her robes. “I swear, they’re ten pounds heavier  _now_ than when I first picked them up.”

“Well, yes,” Fred muttered. “Gravity and all.”

Phoenix shot him a glare, but grinned.

“What are all of these for, anyway?” George asked, picking one from the top and flipping it to a random page. “Why do you need to know—” he cleared his throat and held the dusty volume out pompously, “‘ _Falco Aesalon was the first known man to successfully transform into an Ani_ —’”

Phoenix shut the book and pulled it from his hands.

“Thank you very much, but we can talk about that in private.” When the twins looked at her a bit too seriously for her liking, she winked, and continued, her voice an accusingly loud whisper, “Why is everyone acting like I can’t see them watching me?”

And just like that, the common room was filled with a low collective murmur, as each student pretended to be invested in their own studies. Percy was doing rather well at ignoring the crowd—his nose was three centimeters from the surface of a four foot long essay he was in the process of writing—but others were dreadful at acting. Seamus, for one, was holding his wand by the tip and trying unsuccessfully to levitate a pillow on Dean’s lap; both boys, however, seemed incapable of tearing their gaze from Phoenix, who watched the students out of the corner of her eye.

“They’re waiting for Harry and Ron to say something, I suspect,” George whispered, taking half of the pile into his arms.

“I think they’re expecting a proper talking-to for tonight’s little event,” said Fred, grabbing the other half.

“But they don’t know that Hermione’s really proud of you—”

“And that Harry and Ron just want to make sure you’re alright—”

“Having fainted this morning and all.”

“That’s nice,” Phoenix laughed, blushing. She tucked a stray strand of dark brown hair behind her ear and waved at Hermione, who was so anxious to talk to Phoenix that she was practically hovering above her seat. “I should go talk to them first, huh?”

“We can bring the books up to your room,” George offered.

“I actually don’t think you—” But the twins weren’t listening; each had taken their half of the pile and began levitating it through the common room and up the spiral staircase on the right. “—can...Never mind, then.”

“We can throw a couple of Dungbombs, if you want the room all to yourselves,” Fred whispered, reaching into his pocket.

Phoenix wrinkled her nose at the thought; she knew a spell to get rid of the odor, but the whole spectacle seemed unnecessary, especially if Percy was going to force himself into the whole thing as the ‘authority figure.’

“No, but thank you,” she said. “I think I can handle this one.”

She strode over toward the fireplace, aware that all eyes were on her as she sauntered, her pace agonizingly slow, keeping Hermione’s gaze as she went. With a flick of her wand, she summoned a vacant wooden chair from one of the study desks and sat opposite Harry and Ron, with her back to the flames.

“You alright, Nyx?” Harry asked. Compared to the rest of the common room, he looked absolutely bored; open on his lap sat two open textbooks—for two entirely different subjects, Phoenix noted—and his legs swung back and forth impatiently as he made little marks now and again on a piece of parchment he had somehow balanced on the chair’s rounded arm.

“Is that the homework for McGonagall?” she responded, ignoring his yawn. “I could take a look at what you’ve got so far.”

“Oh, if it wouldn’t be a  _bother_ —”

“Yes, Ron,” Phoenix laughed, relaxing into her seat. “I’ll do yours, too, if you want...but not until tomorrow. I’ve done enough work today, I feel like my brain’s turned to mush.”

“No, for that you’d have to have one.” Harry said it with the tiniest hint of a smirk on his face, and Phoenix was torn between smacking him on the arm or laughing along. But since both seemed valid options, that’s exactly what she did. “Now,” she giggled, “I’m going to bed. I’ve still got a bit of a headache, if I’m honest, so we can discuss this in the morning. Love you both,” she said to the boys, “and good-night. Are you coming with me, Hermione?”

“No, actually,” the girl sputtered, staring down at her lap. “I’m going to help them study.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Phoenix saw Harry shake his head; her smile faded.

“Alright, then. I’ll see you whenever you come up.”

 

*              A              *              S              *              B              *

 

The dreams stopped suddenly. There were no more flashes of green light, no more haunting deaths, no more strangers just beyond the alleyway or solemn whispers from a man who should never be so kind. By the end of the week, Sirius Black had completely vanished from her mind. Without the constant reminder of her possible Dark lineage, Phoenix felt rather liberated; she’d gone back to eating normally and began helping Hermione, Harry, and Ron guard the entrance to the out-of-bounds corridor. Between and after classes, one of the four first years would go up to the door, press their ears to the surface as inconspicuously as possible, and listen for Fluffy’s regular growling.

The theory went like this: if someone had gotten past the three-headed dog, Fluffy would either be silent  _or_ whimpering from pain, and they could alert the headmaster that there was a possible thief trying to steal the Sorcerer’s Stone. It was, by no means, a perfect plan—Fluffy could be asleep when they went to check on him, or he could have somehow hurt himself, or any number of things could go wrong. In any case, Professor Dumbledore would now know that the four students were aware of what was being hidden inside of the castle and would, no doubt, monitor them from then on to keep them from possible danger—but it was the best they could do without outside help.

 

Though Dumbledore had planned on speaking with Phoenix, he seemed to have forgotten. A whole week passed, then two, and Phoenix had yet to receive anything from the headmaster. She was relieved, to say the least; either he’d want to discuss the Mirror of Erised and, subsequently, her nightmares, or press uncomfortably into her personal and home life. Neither option seemed preferable. She tried to not imagine what he’d say if he knew she had, at one point, become obsessed with her reflection—at the very least, in her dreams—to the extent that she’d stopped eating, but, with Hermione’s help, she was able to come up with a reasonable distraction.

“Here, Phoenix,” the Muggle-born said, placing a color-coded sheet on the table before her. “This is the schedule I promised.”

“Why don’t ours look the same?” Phoenix asked, glancing at Hermione’s own schedule. “I thought we’d be studying together.”

“Oh, we will. Mine matches my notes, look. Your classes are just different colors. See here?” She put the sheets beside one another so that Phoenix could compare them and pointed at two identical boxes underneath a blank space labeled  _Dinner_. “They both say  _Transfiguration_ , and they’re both the same amount of time, but yours is red and mine is emerald.”

“But why is mine different?”

At this, Hermione blushed. She pulled her schedule back onto her side of the table and lined it perfectly with the bottom left-hand corner.

“Because red is your favorite color,” she mumbled, picking up her quill, “and Transfiguration is your favorite subject. But that’s the only one that’s different. I switched Transfiguration and History of Magic...all of the rest are the same color. Purple for Quirrell’s turban, Slytherin green for Snape, Hufflepuff yellow for Professor Sprout—”

“’Mione, I get it,” Phoenix laughed. “It’s brilliant, and it looks like it took a while to make, yeah?”

Harry and Ron had absolutely refused to give in to Hermione’s study plan. According to them, it was  _far_ too early to begin worrying about end-of-year exams, despite their professors’ insistence to start preparing as soon as possible. They sat beside the girls—Harry to Phoenix’s left, Ron to Hermione’s right—and talked about possible ways to keep Quirrell and, by extension, the Sorcerer’s Stone, safe; if Snape figured out way to get beyond whatever protection Quirrell offered, then it would only be a matter of time before he could get past Fluffy.

“Or maybe he already knows how,” Ron ventured, leaning forward precariously in his desk chair. “Maybe he just hasn’t done it yet so that no one becomes suspicious.”

Phoenix rolled her eyes and opened  _A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration_ to the bookmarked page.

 

The Easter holiday rolled around and, since Marinia had signed up to stay at Hogwarts over break—knowing it was her best chance to both see Alexandria and actually get some studying done for her upcoming N.E.W.T.s—Phoenix didn’t see the point in going home. Jasper was visiting their parents, because, since he’d returned from Christmas break, they’d been sending letters weekly to remind him how wonderful it had been spending time with family. He felt shamed into going home the same way, Phoenix thought, Ron felt obligated to write his parents—though she also couldn’t blame Mr. and Mrs. Weasley for wanting to have  _some_ news from him now and again.

Hermione kept Phoenix busy during the break, and Harry and Ron became more and more exasperated by their work as time went on. Ron, for one, had little confidence in himself when it came to the exams; he constantly rationalized his choice to put off studying by saying that there was no point in doing so if he was just going to forget it all anyway. Across from him, Harry was trying his best to get a grasp on his subjects, despite the frequent waves of boredom and distraction that dragged him unwillingly from his work. Their talk turned to whispers, then to yawns, and most days ended with four very tired, very  _drained_ students, only two of whom were certain they would receive passing grades.

Phoenix had to remind Hermione that she was top in their class, or else she was sure the Muggle-born would have a complete breakdown in the middle of the library.

“But what if—”

“Hermione, someone would literally have to erase your memory  _with magic_ for you to fail,” Phoenix explained as calmly as possible, holding her hand out for the other girl to take. “Breathe, alright. You’re going to make it to second year, I promise. You’re absolutely  _brilliant_.”

Hermione smiled into her textbook.

“Hagrid?” Ron suddenly called, sounding more awake than he had all day. “What are you doing in the library?”

Despite his massive size, Hagrid looked shocked that the boys had spotted him. His black eyes widened and he hid something hastily behind his back.

“Why are you looking in  _that_ section?” Phoenix asked, her brows furrowed suspicously. “That’s all about magical creatures, isn’t it?”

“ _How_ do you know  _that_?” Ron asked brusquely. “Do you have the whole library memorized, or what?”

Hermione shot him a warning look, but Phoenix smiled.

“No, it’s just that I’ve done a bit of research in that section,” she laughed. “I’ve read  _Fantastic Beasts_ so many times, I thought I’d try to find something new in magizoology, but I ended up getting side-tracked.” She turned back to Hagrid, who shrunk under the attention. “Is there something specific you’re looking for?”

“Jus’ lookin’,” he said, walking carefully around the students so that they couldn’t see what he was holding.

“For what, exactly?” Phoenix asked, making her way toward the bookshelf where Hagrid had been standing. “Ah, dragons. This whole shelf here’s all about dra—”

“Shhh,” Hagrid hissed, taking a step back.

“Is that one of the protections?” Ron asked, his eyes wide with excitement. “Is a dragon guarding the Sorcerer’s Sto—”

Hagrid shushed them louder this time, then looked hurried around the library to make sure no one had overheard him.

“Listen—come an’ see me later. I’m not promisin’ I’ll tell yeh anythin’, mind, but don’ go rabbitin’ about it in here, students aren’ s’possed ter know.”

“Oh, of course not.” Phoenix rolled her eyes at Ron. “We can meet you after dinner. Sound good?”

Hagrid didn’t seem to know what to say; he nodded several times more than necessary, shuffled toward the librarian’s desk, and was gone. None of the four students said a word until he was out of sight.

“If he’s keeping a dragon in that little  _wooden_ hut of his—”

“He wouldn’t do something that dangerous, would he?”

 

“Yes,” Phoenix answered some hours later. “Yes, it seems he would.”

As she, Hermione and the boys entered Hagrid’s hut, the first thing Phoenix noticed was the incredible heat radiating from what had previously been the cooking fire. With all of the curtains shut, there was little natural light coming through, and the home was dark enough to hide something in plain sight. Underneath the kettle, in the burning fire itself, was a large, black egg. Phoenix opened her mouth to say something, but Harry, who’d been discussing strategies with Ron on the way down to the gamekeeper’s hut, spoke first.

“We know about Nicolas Flamel and the Sorcerer’s Stone,” he said, “and we know that Quirrell’s helping guard it. We want to know what  _else_ is guarding it.”

Hagrid offered them tea.

“Snape’s trying to steal it!” Ron practically shouted. “Nyx heard him trying to shake down Quirrell after the Quidditch match.”

Phoenix blanched, and Hagrid turned to her, face scrunched so that his eyes were barely visible through his bushy black beard. Phoenix turned on Ron.

“I said I heard them  _talking_ ,” she hissed. “Something about figuring out where Quirrell’s  _‘loyalties lie,’_ and that could mean anything!”

“Really, Nyx?” Ron said. “What else  _could_ it mean?”

“Have you ever thought that Snape might be questioning Quirrell’s loyalty to  _Dumbledore_?”

It was clear no one believed her. Both Harry and Ron looked viciously incredulous, Hermione pitying, and Hagrid just seemed utterly confused by all of these half-fleshed accusations.

“Now, hol’ on a minute,” he said. “Snape wouldn’ try ter steal the Stone. He’s one o’ the teachers protectin’ it!”

“And Quirrell?”

Hagrid nodded.

“Yeah, a whole lot o’ them,” he mumbled, then counted them each off on his large, beefy fingers. “Le’s see, there’s Professor Quirrell, Professor Snape, Professor McGonagall, Professor Flitwick, Professor Sprout...oh, an’ Dumbledore o’ course.”

“Of course,” Hermione repeated. “And you wouldn’t tell anyone how to get past Fluffy, would you? Not even the other professors? I suspect Dumbledore trusts you to keep such an  _important_ secret.”

Phoenix rolled her eyes, but grinned. Hagrid beamed.

“O’ course not,” he said, “I was tol’ not ter tell a soul.”

Phoenix could see the faintest trace of relief wash over Harry and Ron’s faces.

“Hagrid,” Harry asked, “can we have a window open? I’m boiling.”

“Dragon eggs needs extreme temperatures in order to hatch properly,” Phoenix explained, shifting in her seat to better face the fire. “It’s kind of like how a chicken sits on her eggs. A dragon needs that heat, so, when the  _real_ mother isn’t around to keep her eggs warm, keepers and trainers need to recreate that environment artificially.”

Harry and Ron twisted their faces in confusion; Phoenix could see Hermione’s surprise out of the corner of her eye as the Muggle-born spotted the dragon egg for the first time.

“Hagrid, you  _didn’t_.”

“What kind is it?” Phoenix asked, leaning forward on her elbows. 

“Not really sure yet,” Hagrid admitted, shrugging. “Jus’ got him from some stranger down at the pub...didn’ ask questions, really.”

“Hagrid,” Hermione began, steeling herself. “You took...you took an illegal dragon from a complete stranger you met in a pub?”

Hagrid, of course, didn’t seem to have a problem with it as Hermione, Harry, and Ron did. Phoenix was on the fence about this idea. On one hand, it was very dangerous and incredibly illegal; on the other hand, it would allow her to meet a real life dragon and—if she was lucky—spend time caring for it while Hagrid was about his gamekeeping duties. In the end, reason (and Hermione’s penetrating glare) won out.

“We need to figure out a way to get him out of here safely,” she explained reluctantly. “It’s gonna be a lot more trouble than it’s worth, Hagrid. Especially if you’re caught.”

Hagrid wasn’t entirely convinced. The four Gryffindors left some time later, each worried about their friend, but each also stewing in the new developments they’d made in their quest to defend the Sorcerer’s Stone. Phoenix felt more than slightly hurt that none of them had believed her; she resolved only to bring up the subject if necessary.

 

*              A              *              S              *              B              *

 

The egg was hatching, and the only thing stopping Harry, Ron, and Phoenix from skiving off Herbology to see it happen was Hermione. She made them wait until morning break.

“Did you see the look on Malfoy’s face?”

“When?” Phoenix turned to Harry as they made their way to the hut. “I was trying to focus on Professor Sprout. I’m terrified of having to deal with any of  _those_ things on the exams, but—”

“I think he knows we’re up to something,” Harry muttered, “so we’ll have to be careful.”

Hagrid opened the door with a beaming smile and hurried them inside. The students gathered around the egg with bated breath; Harry and Ron leaned too close, disrupting the girls’ view, and received a swift elbow to the ribs that left them both with unintentional bruises.

“Sorry,” Phoenix muttered. The boys took a step back.

As the egg cracked, revealing patches of black, leathery skin and scales and small, curled claws, Phoenix found herself near tears. Here was something so beautiful, so  _rare_ , she could not believe her luck to witness it.

The little dragon pushed past the last few shattered pieces of shell and poked his head into the light. His body was skinny, nearly serpentine, and his bulging eyes were a bright, dazzling orange that reminded Phoenix of burning embers.

“Isn’t he  _beautiful_?” Hagrid asked, reaching forward to stroke the dragon’s snout. The baby snapped and hissed, causing the half-giant to retract his hand.

Phoenix sighed.

“He’s  _adorable_ , Hagrid,” she cooed. “What are you going to name him?”

“I—er,” he sputtered, “I didn’ think abou’ tha’, if I’m honest.”

Phoenix began to whistle softly, watching as the dragon eyed her suspiciously; when he seemed calm enough, she gingerly reached out one finger and rubbed up and down the bridge of his thin snout.

“He’s purring,” Hermione whispered. “I didn’t know they did that.”

These first few moments of peaceful awe were quickly disrupted; Hagrid jumped from his spot and ran to the window, shouting frantically behind him, “Someone was lookin’ through the gap in the curtains—it’s a kid—he’s running back up ter the school.”

Harry and Phoenix turned instantly to one another.

“Malfoy,” Ron said, voice dripping disdain. “You said he’d been listening to us earlier?”

“Yeah,” Harry sighed. “We’ll have to be careful.”

 

Over the next week, Hagrid had decided on a name: Norbert. It wasn’t spectacular, and Ron winced when he first heard it said out loud, but Phoenix was glad for any excuse to call the little dragon anything but  _Little Dragon._ For that first week, she’d felt condescending, as if calling him by his species was somehow patronizing him.

Though each of the four Gryffindors took turns going down to Hagrid’s hut to help him feed and care for Norbert, it was obvious that Phoenix was the most excited for her daily visits. By the end of the first week, she’d begun taking Ron’s shifts; he could hardly stand seeing the growing dragon, and not only because the thing’s teeth had developed into monstrous fangs that rivaled those of Hagrid’s boarhound. Empty brandy bottles and decimated chicken carcasses littered the floor of Hagrid’s cabin. The brandy-blood concoction that Norbert was constantly consuming was beginning to both permeate the air and seep into the wooden and fabric surfaces, staining everything a morbid red or amber, sickly brown.

What was once a cozy and comfortable—if messy—home had turned into a set straight out of a Muggle horror flick. Harry, Ron, and Hermione were each reasonably repulsed; Phoenix, on the other hand, was stubborn in her opinion that baby Norbert’s diet was natural. She had a harder time supporting his little temper tantrums—especially as they became less and less  _little temper tantrums_ , and more  _large, furniture-destroying fits_. All of them had come back to Gryffindor Tower at least once with either a large, dark bruise from where Norbert had lashed out at them, or an animated tale of a very close call.

It was obvious that Norbert needed to be moved, and soon.

To everyone’s surprise, it was Harry who came up with the idea of asking Charlie, Ron’s older brother, to take Norbert off their hands. It’d taken some time for Phoenix to convince Hagrid to even  _consider_ letting someone else have his precious baby boy, but it was in everyone’s best interest: Charlie was a dragon trainer in Romania; he had the education and experience to deal with different breeds  _and_ access to a facility where Norbert would be able to socialize with other dragons. In the end, Hagrid agreed to let Ron send his brother a letter pleading for assistance.

Charlie responded within the week. That Saturday, at midnight, they’d all be free of Norbert.

Phoenix, of course, was not as thrilled about this as the others, but she agreed that it was all for the best; over the course of the next few days, she refused to go near Hagrid’s hut.

 

*              A              *              S              *              B              *

 

“It all ends tonight,” Ron said a little too loudly as he shoveled forkfuls of baked potato into his mouth.

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Phoenix laughed, shrugging off Hermione’s arm. “Alright, so we still haven’t decided who’s going to do it yet. Any volunteers?”

Their plan was simple: lure Norbert into a crate, somehow sneak the crate up to the tallest tower, and hand it off to Charlie’s coworkers. How those trainers would possibly be able to carry such a heavy parcel while riding broomsticks still confounded Phoenix, but the dragon would be off their hands, and whatever happened next was of no consequence to her or her friends. The only hitch had come up when figuring out how the four of them would successfully travel so far after curfew without being caught. It was obvious they’d use Harry’s Cloak of Invisibility, but only two of them could fit underneath comfortably at a time.

“ _I_ nominate Harry,” Ron teased, “whose Invisibility Cloak we could  _never_ do this without.”

“And  _I_ nominate Ron,” Hermione quipped, “whose snark we could  _all_ do without.”

Harry and Phoenix both laughed so hard they nearly choked on their half-chewed mouthfuls of steak-and-kidney pie.

“Something funny, Skimple?” Malfoy asked, a sleazy smirk plastered on his pale face. His thug friends, Crabbe and Goyle, stood behind him, cracking their knuckles. “Not getting into any trouble, are we?”

Before anyone else could respond—from the disdainful look on their faces, Harry and Ron were both about to say something they may come to regret—Phoenix whipped around to face the three Slytherins and said, monotone, with her face smoothed and serious, “At midnight tonight, Harry and Ron are going to sneak an illegal baby dragon up to the tallest tower and hand it over to professional trainers. Care to join them?”

For a moment, there was silence; a number of Gryffindors on either side of the group had been paying attention to Malfoy’s proximity and had heard Phoenix’s response. When Harry and Ron began laughing, however, so did those around them. It was mere seconds before most of Gryffindor table had joined them, turning red in the face and spraying bits of food and drink as the embarrassed blush that crept up Draco’s neck and cheeks added a fresh element of hilarity to the situation.

The Slytherins, not being ones to give up easily, stormed toward the High Table.

“Oh, no,” Dean chuckled, “Malfoy’s gone and reported you to Snape.”

Phoenix, who’d already turned back to face her plate, resisted the urge to look over her shoulder. As the professor made his way slowly toward her seat, it became harder and harder to ignore the amused, panicked faces on the students around her.

“You’re in for it,” Seamus snorted. “That is, if Snape can’t take a joke.”

“And when has he ever?”

“You’re not helping, George,” Phoenix joked. “Honestly, I’m fine. Watch this.”

She swung her legs over the bench just as the Potions Master came within several feet of her; the tips of her shoes nearly touched his robes as she settled, facing him.

“Is there something wrong, sir?” she asked. Her voice was honeyed, innocent, and her face was twisted into a subtle pout.

“It would seem that you told Mr. Malfoy here that you plan for these two,” he glared at Harry and Ron, “to be out of bed after curfew this evening.”

“It’s true, Professor!” Draco whined. “They all heard her say it.”

“Quiet,” Snape drawled, his eyes focusing once again on Phoenix. “Is this true, Miss Skimple?”

Phoenix had a hunch...it was a strange hunch, and she had very little evidence, but it was a hunch nonetheless. While she answered the Potions professor, she maintained eye contact.

“It’s true that I said it, sir,” she explained, “but I wasn’t being honest with Malfoy. It was a joke, and I don’t think anyone else took me seriously, sir.”

His focus on her gaze did not waver, but intensified. It was as if he could read her thoughts just by staring into her eyes.

“I do not think you intended any harm with this little  _joke_ , did you, Miss Skimple?”

“No.”

Snape suddenly whipped around, addressing his House students once again.

“I think you should understand by now the difference between a  _joke_ ,” he spat the word, “and the truth. You  _will_ consider this before you come to me the next time you hear anything remotely outlandish. Do you understand?”

Draco and his friends looked absolutely mortified, but no one dared laugh this time. The Potions Master made his way back to the High Table and watched the Slytherins saunter sluggishly back to their own.

“Brilliant,” someone whispered. “Bloody brilliant.”

 

As Phoenix pointed out later that evening, what she told Snape had not been a lie.

“I told Draco that Harry and Ron were going, which was true at the time,” she explained, leaning forward so that the four students’ heads were practically touching. “And Snape implied that  _I_ ’d been the one to plan it all, which wasn’t true...Ron volunteered Harry and Hermione volunteered Ron, so I had absolutely no part in that.

“Plus,” she continued, “I intend to go myself. Ron can stay in bed.”

She winked at him, causing him to blush. Harry smirked.

“How do you keep getting away with that?”

“Away with what?”

“Half-truths,” Harry chuckled, relaxing back into his armchair.

“Technicalities, you mean,” Hermione corrected. She shot Phoenix a warning glance before continuing, “Someone’s bound to catch on some time. I wouldn’t be surprised if they have Filch out looking for the boys tonight.”

“They might,” Ron sniffed, “but they don’t know we have Invisibility Cloak.”

“What if they do?”

It was a sobering truth: none of them knew who’d sent Harry the cloak, and it could very well have been one of the professors. Harry and Ron both argued that anyone connected so closely to the school would  _never_ give a student the ability to stalk around Hogwarts undetected, especially with something potentially dangerous being hidden inside the castle, but Phoenix had her doubts.

At quarter past eleven, Phoenix met Harry in the common room; they threw the Invisibility Cloak over themselves, stepped quietly through the portrait hole, and snuck down the steps to the Entrance Hall without a hitch. Once there, however, they ran into Peeves, who was playing tennis against a wall. It was nearly a quarter of an hour before he moved on, allowing the two to make their way onto the grounds and down toward Hagrid’s hut.

Hagrid was tearful, as Phoenix had expected, but they had lost a lot of time while waiting for the poltergeist to leave. Harry looked as anxious as she felt while the gameskeeper said his last good-byes and helped them lift the crate off of the ground.

“Glad that’s done,” Phoenix whispered. They were just out of earshot, stumbling their way through the dark toward the castle steps. The dragon thrashed every now and again, and the students were struggling to keep a hold on the wooden box. “Now for the hard part.”

It was quiet—Norbert, the portraits, the castle, everything was  _quiet_ in an unnatural way that made Phoenix’s stomach churn. Harry seemed to be thinking along the same lines; his eyes flitted from one shadow to the next, scanning the corridors for signs of movement. They made it to the tower without getting caught and dropped the crate with a heavy  _thud_.

“Glad that’s over,” Harry sighed.

“This part at least,” Phoenix reminded him. “We still have to make it back to the dormitories.”

Minutes passed before Harry spotted two dark silhouettes flying toward them; the men—whose faces Phoenix could not clearly see in the dim starlight—used a harness to strap Norbert’s crate to their broomsticks, distributing the weight. She watched in awe as they disappeared back into the night sky.

“You all set, Nyx?” Harry asked softly, holding up one edge of the cloak. “We should head back.”

“Yeah,” she agreed, “I’m alright.”

The trip back was much more ominous than the one up. Every little sound or shadow made them pause and hold their breath; Harry shook as descdended the final staircase and they had to stop momentariliy to allow him to calm his breathing. Phoenix couldn’t entirely blame him. Something was...well... _off_ , and neither was entirely certain what it was.

“It feels like…” Phoenix’s voice trailed off just as they came to a halt in front of the Fat Lady’s portrait.

“Like what?” Harry whispered urgently, whipping his head around.

“Like someone is hiding.”

Harry agreed; it was a strange sensation, hard to describe, but the two students felt less like they were being followed—as they should have, walking around the castle after curfew—and more like someone  _else_ was in the wrong, fleeing from  _them_. As if, somehow, they were the predator...but that didn’t make sense.

“The out-of-bounds corridor, Harry,” she muttered. “We passed by it on our way to the tower, remember?”

“Yeah?”

“And that’s when things started to feel weird for you, too?” By the look on his face, Phoenix could tell she was right; they had nearly spotted someone trying to make it past Fluffy, but hadn’t noticed at the time—too distracted with hauling Norbert as quietly as possible. “What if it was—”

But Harry had already turned and was making his way to the third floor corridor; the feeling did not subside.

“What do we do?” Harry asked. The pair stood outisde the entrance, too afraid to press their ears against the door.

“You stay here with the cloak,” Phoenix whispered, “and I’ll go in. If I get caught,  _you_ need to get out of here, alright? Don’t wait around and get yourself into trouble.”

Harry nodded and Phoenix lifted the edge of the Invisibility Cloak quickly, careful not to be seen. She produced her wand from inside a pocket on her pajamas, muttered some inaudible incantation, and crept inside the out-of-bounds corridor.

 

The three-headed dog was sleeping with one monstrous paw resting atop the trapdoor; Phoenix could barely make out Fluffy’s strange silhouette in the darkness. He snored, long and loud, blowing her hair back. There was no sign that anything was amiss.

She turned around and opened the door, checking that the corridor outside was empty before darting out and under Harry’s cloak.

“Nothing,” she whispered, and they hurried back to the common room.

 

*              A              *              S              *              B              *

 

“Is that Filch?” Harry asked as they neared the portrait. “Who’s he got with him?”

All color drained from Phoenix’s face.

“Quirrell,” she sputtered. “He’s got Quirrell with him, that’s who.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quotes from the book:
> 
> “Hagrid?...What are you doing in the library?” and “Jus’ lookin’.” page 229.  
> “Listen—come an’ see me later. I’m not promisin’ I’ll tell yeh anythin’, mind, but don’ go rabbitin’ about it in here, students aren’ s’possed ter know,” and “Hagrid, can we have a window open? I’m boiling.” page 230.  
> “Someone was lookin’ through the gap in the curtains—it’s a kid—he’s running back up ter the school.” page 235.


	15. The Forbidden Forest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That One With the Unforgivable Curse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry it's taken so long! 
> 
> School has taken so much out of me and my family recently adopted two very young kittens, so we've been busy! I promise I haven't abandoned you guys.
> 
> (Also, I don't have a proof-reader, so this may or may not be edited oops)

Quirrell’s head spun around; his eyes rested where the students should have been. 

“Something wrong?” Filch asked, passing his gaze sweepingly over the area. 

“N-no,” the professor stuttered, “j-just th-th-thought I h-heard something.”

“I’m sorrry, Professor, but I can’t get you into the common room,” Filch continued. He held his lamp up accusingly at the Fat Lady, who was pretending to sleep with her head resting heavily on the inside of the frame. “I can fetch Minerva, though, if you’d like—”

“Oh, n-n-no.” 

To Phoenix, Quirrell looked even more nervous than usual—an effect Phoenix attributed to mention of the strict and forward Deputy Headmistress herself. He smoothed the front of his robes and sighed. 

“I d-d-don’t think we should b-bother her at this t-t-time.”

“You certain you saw a student out of bed?”

Quirrell nodded; the turban, which he kept wrapped tightly around the back of his head at all times, slid slightly, causing him to reach back and adjust the loosened fabric. 

“I’ll go check to make sure no one’s sneaking into one of the other dormitories,” Filch said, raising his lamp once again. “Have a good night, professor.”

The caretaker gave one final look to the Fat Lady and stalked hurriedly down the nearest staircase. Quirrell took off in the opposite direction. When Harry and Phoenix were both certain there was no one else around to see them, they gave the password— _ “Pig Snout” _ —and entered the portrait hole, leaving behind a very confused Fat Lady. 

“We’ll have to figure out a way to get someone in and out of the common room while under the Cloak,” Phoenix sighed, settling into one of the armchairs. Beside her, Ron yawned something incomprehensible; Hermione’s eyelids were barely open, but she was doing a much better job of staying awake than Ron. “It’s only a matter of time before the Fat Lady reports an invisible person entering and leaving Gryffindor Tower in the middle of the night...if McGonagall hears—”

“Yeah,” Harry interrupted. “I know. We’ve got to come up with something.”

By the reluctant intonation in his voice, Phoenix knew that the  _ something _ would have to wait for another time; right now, the first years were dealing with mountains of homework in preparation for the upcoming exams, which left the boys with very little mental energy at the end of the day to spare for new ideas on how to foolproof use of the Invisibility Cloak. 

“How’d it go?” the Muggle-born asked. “You don’t seem too pleased.”

“The dragon’s gone—”

“Yay,” Ron spouted halfheartedly; Phoenix shot him a look. “Come off it, Nyx, he was  _ way _ too dangerous to keep here. You know that.”

“Yeah, but you don’t have to go rubbing it in.”

Ron rolled his eyes and received a swift smack on the arm.

“Quirrell was waiting by the Fat Lady,” Harry muttered, “with Filch.”

“Did they see you?”

“Would we still  _ be here _ , Ron, if they’d seen us?”

Another eye-roll, another smack.

“Stop it!”

 

*              A              *              S              *               B              *

 

Hemera became something like a pet to the residents of Gryffindor Tower; she could be found most afternoons in the circular common room, basking in the warmth of the fire or cooing for attention by one of the study desks. It’d seem she’d had enough of the stuffy, cold Owlery and preferred to be pampered and coddled—fawned over by the girls for her adorable size and large, rounded eyes. Phoenix was certain she was the only owl in all of Gryffindor House that was recognized by a majority of its students; so when the tawny ball of fluff zoomed enthusiastically into breakfast one morning three weeks after Norbert’s transfer, nearly every student at the table was as excited to see Hemera as Phoenix was to get her mail. 

“Not another one from your parents?” Ron asked. Hermione looked ready to smack him, so he qualified, “I just mean they keep sending her stuff that makes her upset, that’s all! If you need me to, Nyx, I can ask my mum and dad if you can stay all summer. That way they can’t bother you so much.”

“That’s sweet, Ron,” Phoenix smiled, unwrapping the rolled-up parchment from Hemera’s outstretched leg and scratching her at the base of the neck, right where the two wings connect. “But Marinia says she’s moving out—a week at home to pack her things and she’s gone. I’m gonna spend as much time with her as I can before she leaves.”

“I understand,” he mumbled through a mouthful of sausage. “Offer still stands, though.”

“Thanks.” There was no written address or name on the outside of the letter, which was unusual, but the untidy scrawl inside was unmistakable. “It’s from Hagrid, actually.”

 

_ I know you’ve been busy, but would you like to come down some time for tea? It’s been quiet since Norbert left. _

 

“That’s very nice of him,” Hermione said. 

Phoenix put down the letter and started filling the bushy-haired girl’s plate, then moved on to her own. 

“What do you guys think?” she asked, raising an eyebrow at the boys, who had clearly not been paying attention. “I know this afternoon we said we’d study for the Potions exam, but we could take some time off, don’t you think, ’Mione?”

Out of the corner of her eye, Ron and Harry looked hopeful; she knew they’d only agreed to study because Hermione was so persistent, but she doubted if they’d ever even  _ skimmed  _ the color-coded schedules the Muggle-born had made them. 

“And fail?” Hermione asked, horror-struck; she turned wide, accusing eyes on the boys, silently shaming them into line. When they resisted, she reminded them that students that failed their exams were not permitted to attend second year. This seemed to win them over, if reluctantly; they nodded, moaned an incomprehensible agreement, and stared blankly at their breakfast plates, which now, apparently, were much less appetizing than before. “You can go if you want, though, Nyx. I doubt  _ you’ll _ fail.”

Ron opened his mouth to argue, but realized very quickly how useless this would be. 

“I won’t stay for very long,” Phoenix promised, “because I really want to get a head start on the project for Astronomy. I know if I don’t do it tonight, I’ll forget about it.”

“What project?” Ron asked. “We don’t have a project due in Astronomy.”

“Yes, we do, Ron,” Hermione hissed.

Harry and Phoenix rolled their eyes.

 

Phoenix met with Hagrid before dinner that evening, using a damaged appetite as her excuse when he tried to serve a plate of unchewable blocks of ‘cake’ Harry and Ron had warned her not to try—both boys had apparently had their mouths nearly cemented shut for several minutes the first time they visited. She uncluttered the table by displacing some outdated newspapers and magazines on the empty chair beside her and made some room for her tea.

“So, how are things, Hagrid?” she asked, perhaps a bit too formally. 

“Er—good, very good,” he said. “How are the others?”

“Harry and Ron are trying their best  _ not _ to study,” Phoenix laughed, “and Hermione’s trying  _ her _ best to pass the exams. She’s convinced she’s going to fail, I think, which is odd.”

“Brilliant, tha’ girl is,” Hagrid sighed; Phoenix could see the faintest shimmer of pride in his beetle black eyes. “Jus’ a bit more confidence. Tha’s all she needs.”

“Malfoy’s a bit sore. Apparently he’s just behind her.”

“And you?” he asked. “How’re yer grades?”

Phoenix shrugged.

“I don’t really care about my marks,” she admitted, her voice small and wavering, “not so long as I pass. But I suppose I’m doing fine.”

“Fine?” Hagrid laughed. A large, toothy smile was visible through his bushy beard. “Not jus’ fine, from what I heard. Top o’ the class, righ’ beside Hermione.  _ Brilliant _ , some o’ yer professors say.”

Phoenix could feel the blush in her cheeks and forehead; she couldn’t help the toothy smile that tugged painfully at the corners of her mouth, and so she stared down at her tea, swirling the spoon unnecessarily around the half-empty cup. 

“I’m  _ not _ as good as ’Mione.”

“Look, I can’ tell you who said so,” Hagrid whispered, leaning forward conspiratorially over the table, “but more than one o’ them has you pinned fer prefec’ fifth year, and a few even say you’d be Head Girl, too. Now, that’s a ways off o’ course, but it’s never too early to star’ thinking abou’ things like tha’.”

“You mean, never too early to start thinking about my marks?” Phoenix asked monotone. 

Hagrid took a final gulp of his tea to avoid eye contact. 

“I don’t even know if I  _ want _ to be prefect—never mind Head Girl. Hermione seems up to it, though, so let her have the titles.”

“Now hol’ on,” Hagrid said. “I didn’ say you  _ had  _ ter be one o’ them, I jus’ said it’d been mentioned.”

“By who?”

This seemed to catch the gamekeeper by surprise; he was not ready in the slightest for this question, which may explain how he’d also accidentally slip vital information, like Fluffy’s origins (more or less) and the names of the professors guarding the Sorcerer’s Stone. He seemed incapable of linking one bit of information to another before it was too late. 

“Er—jus’ some professors. They talk a’ the High Table, you know, as they’re bound ter—”

“I know,” Phoenix said, looking up at him reassuringly. “I just was curious; which of them mentioned it?”

“Well, Flitwick at first, I think.” He stared at a corner of the ceiling, trying to recall. “He said it when you wen’ and sat with the Slytherin studen’s, a couple o’ weeks ago.”

“Was he the only one?”

“No, no...then Sprout agreed, I think, and she brought up Head Girl—said somethin’ abou’ there being no real competition in Gryffindor House and tha’ McGonagall should be grateful for tha’—an’ then  _ she _ agreed, an’ Snape—”

“Did Quirrell say anything?” Phoenix ventured. 

“Maybe I shouldn’ get into this with you.”

‘Please, Hagrid.” Phoenix pouted: something she reserved for moments when she knew she’d either royally messed up, or wanted to weedle information out of someone. This case, of course, was the latter. She had a hunch that Quirrell was trying to steal the Sorcerer’s Stone, and discreditting one of the only two ‘good’ students who possibly knew about this plot could help to keep her—and subsequently, all four of them—out of his way. “I won’t be upset, I promise.”

The gamekeeper thought for a moment, then said in a timid voice, “Quirrell said somethin’ abou’ a mirror—somethin’ abou’ what you’d seen in it.”

“What did the others say?”

“Well, to be hones’, he really said it to Dumbledore,” Hagrid said, pouring himself a second cup of tea. “Some o’ the others didn’ seem to know what he was talkin’ abou’.”  
A pause.

“What  _ was _ he talkin’ abou’, if you don’ mind my askin’?” 

Phoenix took her time coming up with a viable answer; she didn’t want to lie to Hagrid, but there seemed very little she could twist about the situation to make it a half-truth.  _ No _ , she thought, _ a technicality. _

“I, um,” she began, holding the vowels out much longer than usual, as if those few seconds of stalling could offer her some new angle in which to spin her perspective. 

“It’s hard to explain,” she ended up admitting, “because I’m still not entirely certain what happend. There was this mirror in the castle that I found that uses magic to show you things that aren’t really there.”

“An’ what did you see?”

She thought of Sirius Black—of his wanted posters, of his insane eyes and bulging veins, of the things he’d done to earn him a spot in Azkaban—and then she thought of the contradictory image she’d seen in the Mirror—of the kindness with which he smiled, of the calm, sad way he looked at her, and of the grey eyes that looked far too much like her own.

“I wish I could tell you, Hagrid,” she sighed. “But I really don’t know.”

 

*              A              *              S              *              B              *

 

Marinia and Alexandria were in love...well, they were in love to the extent that two teenagers with limited romantic options  _ could _ be in love. Phoenix was glad that they’d found each other; she figured there weren’t many other girls who’d be open to dating other girls at Hogwarts, and that their chances of finding partners outside of school were just as slim. It was strange: what were the odds they’d find each other at all, never mind so early in life? 

But she kept her reservations quiet and made an effort to be genuinely happy for the couple. They  _ were _ going to be living together after all, which was a huge step and one, Phoenix was sure, Marinia wouldn’t take without being  _ absolutely certain _ that she had strong feelings for Alexandria, not just a simple crush. 

Of course, there would be planning. Lots and lots of planning. Not only did they need a place to stay (Phoenix didn’t pry when they told her they would not be staying with either girl’s parents, but she figured it had something to do with the dissension Marinia said people like her often met) but then, too, they needed to somehow pay for their living arrangements, make sure they had the essentials, and still factor in Marinia’s ministry training  _ and _ Alex’s last two years at Hogwarts. There was a lot to consider before the end of the term, and Marinia often spent days at a time distracted from her studies while she awaited an owl from someone involved with these arrangements. 

“I wrote him three days ago,” Marinia sighed, exasperated. She crossed her arms on the table and laid her head down. “I can’t concentrate on my Charms when all I can think about is whether or not he’s going to rent me the apartment.”

“Where’s Alex?”

“Probably dying over her Arithmancy homework,” she groaned, lifting herself off the desk. “She’s been busy studying for O.W.L.s like mad. I’ve barely seen her all this week! Word of advice, Nyx: don’t take too many electives. Two are required, and it’s two I recommend. Anything more than that and you’ll be a wreck all fifth year.”

“Didn’t you take three?” Phoenix laughed. 

“Yeah, and do you remember how much I complained that year?” A pause. “Why aren’t you outside?”

Phoenix blanched.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you’re always in here with that Granger girl,” she said, resting her head in her hand. “Why don’t you two go outside to study? It’s awfully nice out right now. It could be good for you.”

“Hermione is scared of failing her classes,” the first year explained, sighing, “and I doubt she’ll be up for a change of scenery. Any sort of distraction and she’s unhappy...and—er— _ frantic _ . She tends to panic a bit.”

“She’s smart, though, right?” 

“Brilliant.”

“I’d be worried if I were her,” Marinia said easily, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. She wasn’t being mean or belittling; she meant this.

“What do you mean?” Phoenix repeated. She was slightly cross, but not entirely sure why. 

“She doesn’t really have reason to be,” the older girl explained. “But—I mean—she sort of has reason to be? At home, I mean, you know?”

“No, I don’t understand.”

“Well, she’s a Muggle-born, yeah? Imagine what it’d be like to discover you had all of these cool and powerful magical abilities. You wouldn’t know what it feels like, because you grew up knowing you were a witch. But Hermione? She’s different. She’s probably terrified of losing out on the wizarding world—to her, failing to make it into second year is like being kicked out of the wizarding world entirely. And who wants to be a weirdo outcast?” She said it all in one breath, staring intently at her younger sibling all the while. She searched Phoenix’s eyes for approval. “Don’t you agree?”

Phoenix shrugged her shoulders, but looked away guiltily. 

“I hadn’t thought of it like that.”

“I didn’t expect you to,” she sighed, “you’re only eleven. But I will say one thing: if I were you, and I wanted to be friends with this Granger girl, I’d start putting myself in her shoes.

“You should do that for everyone, of course,” Marinia added as an afterthought, “to a certain extent. But mostly for your friends. It makes friendships a lot easier when you can understand why they do certain things—what shapes their behaviors, you know?” 

When Phoenix didn’t say anything, she continued. 

“But I really do have to go. Charms is eating me alive and I have to grab a textbook from my dorm before dinner, or else I know I’ll get sidetracked yet again. Love you, Nyx.”

“Love you, too,” Phoenix mumbled half-heartedly. 

And with that, Marinia stood and made her way through the library. Phoenix thought about what her older sister had said. Could Hermione be afraid of being expelled from the wizarding world? Is that why she was so adamant on doing so well academically, and why she pushed her friends to put more effort into their school work—so that they’d all be accepted some day as  _ real _ witches and wizards, and not just as outcasts who couldn’t make the cut? 

Was Hermione so aggressive when they met because she’d wanted to prove that she belonged there, at a school full of young witches who’d grown up around magic, who’d been raised knowing they were talented and special? 

Perhaps Marinia was wrong, but the more Phoenix thought about it, the more her hypothesis seemed plausible.

 

When Phoenix next saw her, Marinia looked much paler and sicklier than before. Her hair was pulled up into a messy bun and clearly had not been combed out thoroughly in a few days; her eyes were lined in red. She sat on the edge of the Black Lake, watching the trail of ripples the giant squid left in its wake as its tentacles stretched above the water, in and out of the first warming breaths of spring. 

“Are you alright?” Phoenix asked, sitting beside her. She crossed her legs and pulled her knees tight to her chest. “Is this about exams, or—”

“I just sent a letter to mum and dad,” Marinia rasped, her voice barely audible. “I told them I’ll be moving out when I get home...I never thought it would be like this.”

“Like what?”

“This hard,” she choked back a sob. “Moving away and getting a job and finding love and…” her voice trailed off and, in her pause, Phoenix shifted so that the two were leaning somewhat against each other, with her forehead against her older sister’s shoulder and Marinia’s cheek on the top of her head. The seventh year sniffed and wiped her nose quickly on the inside of her robes. “It’s something we all do. This is supposed to be the fun part, you know?”

No, Phoenix  _ didn’t  _ know. From what she’d gathered from the bookshop owner, whose two sons had graduated and moved out  _ years _ before Phoenix came along (he loved to tell her their horror stories, like the time when his oldest, Jeremy’s, heart was broken by his girlfriend, who broke up with him unexpectedly and kicked him out of the apartment with no money, no car, and no place to go until morning), becoming an adult was one of the most difficult transitions in life. 

Why? She couldn’t quite comprehend its complexity just yet, but she knew better than to think life got easier after people stopped taking care of you. It just made sense.

“I love you,” Phoenix whispered, “and mum and dad love you, too.”

Marinia sniffed again.

“Plus, you’ll have Alexandria to help you once she graduates. And Mr. Weasley seems really excited to meet you, so getting a job at the Ministry should be a bit easier with him on your side, right?”

Phoenix could feel the tears welling up inside of her as Marinia continued to sniff and shiver, but she wouldn’t let herself cry; strength cannot be measured in dry eyes, but she knew Marinia would become a bawling mess if her support caved in even the tiniest bit. So she took a heavy breath, feeling the warm afternoon air fill her lungs. 

“Have you two decided what you’re doing after she graduates?” 

At this, Phoenix could feel Marinia’s smile; she was always so proud of Alexandria, and thinking of the girl seemed sufficient to bring her out of most funks. 

“She’s going to attempt N.E.W.T.s in Charms, Herbology, Transfiguration, Arithmancy, and Care for Magical Creatures,” she said, her voice recovering. “She loves all of those classes, plus you don’t need anything special, really, to work as an editor for the  _ Daily Prophet _ ...the grades are just for show. Her parents would go ballistic if she left Hogwarts without taking N.E.W.T.s.”

“So would mum and dad,” Phoenix laughed. 

“Well, yeah,” Marinia mumbled. She chuckled under her breath. “After she’s got her marks, she’s hoping to get an internship. Sprout—as Head of House, she helps us set up for life after school and all that—Professor Sprout, she pulled some strings with Cuffe, the editor-in-chief, who apparently was close with one of the professors  _ way _ back.”

“That’s amazing,” the Gryffindor said, sitting up straight. “So Alex will basically be set?”

“He said he was waiting on her marks, as I said,” Marinia breathed, “but we’re hopeful.”

“So you’ve got an apartment, a job, a possible internship for Alex, and a girlfriend,” Phoenix listed, raising her eyebrow teasingly at Marinia. “Things still look grim?”

The Hufflepuff shook her head and smacked Phoenix’s arm; but she was smiling, and that was all that mattered.

 

*              A              *              S              *              B              *

 

Phoenix had the rare, unhelpful gift of being incredibly aware of when she was dreaming. Like now, staring at her reflection in the Mirror of Erised, waiting for Sirius Black to make his usual appearance. This wasn’t real. None of it was possible: the Mirror had been moved  _ months _ ago, the classroom in which it had been held  _ definitely  _ had windows before—a detail her dream world had muddled—and there needed to be something else in the reflection besides herself because there was no way she was completely happy with her life, especially with the Black mystery gnawing away at her subconscious day and night. 

Something was off. 

The room was darker, with a window-less, basement feel to it... _ like a dungeon _ , she concluded, taking one last look around. But there was very little light, save the flickering flame of a dying torch beside her, and Phoenix struggled to make the dimensions or shape of the chamber.

With one final glance at the Mirror, Phoenix noticed Sirius Black’s reflection emerging from the shadows behind her.

“Find me,” he said, smiling sadly. “I know you can.”

Darkness consumed the room, and Phoenix felt as if the walls around her were spinning farther and farther away. 

Phoenix had the rare, unhelpful gift of being incredibly aware of when she was dreaming. Unlike now, staring up at McGonagall’s irate, yet caring face, waiting for someone to explain why she woke up in a bed in the hospital wing with her hand bandaged to three times its usual size. 

“Miss Skimple,” the professor said, her mouth a thin straight line. “Please do explain to me  _ why  _ you were trying to get into the out-of-bounds corridor at three o’clock in the morning.” 

Phoenix paused; beside McGonagall, Dumbledore was looking down at her expectedly. 

“I—” she sputtered, trying to make sense of the situation. “I don’t rem—Professor, I really don’t remember doing  _ anything _ .”

From across the wing, Madam Pomfrey gave the professors a glare that Phoenix had seen a thousand times before: it clearly read _ I respect you as intelligent, mature wizards, but she’s my patient and she needs some rest, so shove off.  _ McGonagall paid Pomfrey no mind. Her hair was pulled back into a black bun, as it always was, but there were rare stray hairs poking out from underneath her tartan night cap, and her usually pristine emerald robes were now a disheveled tartan night dress. 

“Mr. Potter has given us his account,” she continued, gentler, almost as if she were trying to remind Phoenix or guide her—as if somehow giving her a way to make up some reasonable explanation that both contradicted  _ and _ enforced the one Harry had given her. “He said that you came into his dormitory about an hour ago and told him you knew where the Mirror of Erised was being hidden.”

Phoenix should have said she was sleep-walking, or that she thought it was all part of some dream. But she didn’t want to lie to her professor, especially one whose trust was so important to her.

“I don’t remember doing anything,” Phoenix repeated. 

Dumbledore took a step forward.

“Would you be willing to give us your side of the story, Miss Skimple?” 

He didn’t seem angry—on the contrary, he was as calm and gentle as Phoenix had ever seen him. Something about his expression told Phoenix that he  _ knew _ there was something strange going on that was outside of her control, but there was no way either of them could prove it.

“I don’t know,” she whispered, staring down at her hands with her brows furrowed in thought. If she could twiddle her thumbs, she would have, but the bandages on her left hand did a very good job of inhibiting movement. “The last thing I remember is talking to Marinia by the Black Lake. When we got back to the castle…”

Her voice trailed off; both professors leaned slightly forward in anticipation. 

“Yes, Miss Skimple?” McGonagall persisted. 

“Sorry,” she muttered, turning into her shoulder to hide a sudden cough. “When we got back to the castle, she met up with her friend, Alexandria King, and I...I don’t know what I did after that.”

“Is there anything else you remember?” Dumbledore inquired. His silver beard was surprisingly bright in the dark hospital wing. “Perhaps much later in the evening?”

“Yeah. I dreamed about the Mirror of Erised.”

The announcement had the desired effect; both professors were silent. Dumbledore, it seemed, had expected something like this, but McGonagall—and Pomfrey, who, Phoenix could see out of the corner of her eye, was pretending to be busy preparing something on the bed opposite—became very still. There was a strange pause, pregnant with growing tension, until McGonagall broke the silence.

“Potter has been given detention,” she said, her voice raspy with indecision, “and lost seventy-five points for being out of bed after curfew. Are you trying to imply, Miss Skimple, that you were not aware of any attempt made by either you or Mr. Potter to break into the out-of-bounds corridor?”

“I honestly don’t know what happened, Professor.”

McGonagall looked to Dumbledore.

“As Head of Gryffindor House, it is your decision, Minerva,” he rasped. “Good night to you both, and get well soon.” 

He bid the nurse good-night as well and strode out of the hospital wing, leaving Phoenix alone with McGonagall and the ever-present professional eavesdropper. 

“I do not like to take points from my own House, Miss Skimple,” she explained slowly, “especially when you genuinely seem so clueless as to what took place. But there is no excuse for you to be out of bed this late.”  
“I understand.”

“You understand,” she scoffed. “And do you understand how dangerous it is to roam that corridor— _ alone _ , might I add?”

Phoenix suppressed the urge to mention the three-headed dog and take McGonagall by surprise once again; in doing so, she’d inescapably confess to either having gone to the out-of-bounds area that night  _ knowingly _ —and, subsequently, lying to her professors about having done so—or having gone some other night, which was equally incriminating. So she kept her mouth shut and listened to the Deputy Headmistress’s tirade.

“You put yourself  _ and _ Mr. Potter in danger,” she accused, “whether purposefully or not. If you could prove that you were not conscious of your actions at the time, then I could excuse this behavior, but until then, I have no choice but to take another seventy-five points from Gryffindor. You will also be receiving a detention, same as Mr. Potter.

“I am very disappointed in you, Miss Skimple,” she muttered, “but—”

“But?” Phoenix practically shouted in her bewilderment. 

“Yes, Miss Skimple,  _ but _ ,” she continued. The harsh glint in her eye softened. “According to Mr. Potter, you were able to save him from what would have been a very serious attack. You may very well have saved his life,” she gave a pointed look at her student’s bandaged hand, “and demonstrated a level of magic of which I would have  _ never  _ thought a first-year student capable.”

“What did I do?”

“That is for another time, Miss Skimple, when you are well-rested. But since I awarded Messrs. Potter and Weasley ten points each for their idiotic defeat of the troll on Halloween, I find it only fair that I grant you twenty-five points for Gryffindor.”

Phoenix saw the professor’s thin, straight lips curve into a subtle smirk.

“Good night, Miss Skimple.”

 

*              A              *              S              *              B              *

 

Students were surprised to find, the next morning, that one-hundred and twenty-five points had been taken from Gryffindor House. They gathered around the hourglass, wondering how so many scarlet points had been mistakenly redacted. It wasn’t possible to lose  _ that many _ in one night...was it? 

There was a constant buzz in the Entrance and Great Halls as the rumours were developed and spread. When it was found out that Harry Potter— _ the famous Boy-Who-Lived _ —cost Gryffindor House more than one-hundred points in one go, it seemed as if nothing would bring him back from such a terrible turn. All those points he’d gained from their two previous Quidditch matches were gone—forgotten. He was no longer their hero. Even Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs, who had been ecstatic that  _ someone _ finally had a chance of beating Slytherin for the first time in seven long years, began sneering as he passed by. 

Phoenix, on the other hand, was relatively unpopular. Despite her brief time as ‘the Gryffindor who sat down at the Slytherin table,’ she was overlooked. She didn’t spend time socializing outside of her own small group of friends and much of that, too, was spent in the library studying. If the other students knew that a girl named Phoenix had been involved in losing those points, then they didn’t recognize her when they saw her. Compared to Harry, Phoenix’s life after her stint in the hospital wing was rather normal. 

She felt terrible, of course... _ She’d _ been the reason he was out of bed after curfew in the first place. Why she wasn’t being punished more harshly than he was a mystery, but that didn’t stop Harry from being her friend. On the contrary, they seemed to be on better terms now than before, as if getting in trouble together was some secret friendship rite she hadn’t known about. 

 

“It wasn’t  _ really _ your fault,” Hermione reminded her as they made their way through the dungeons. “I don’t know what happened to you last night, but if you don’t remember anything, then I’m certain you were under some sort of spell.”

“Oh, yeah,” Harry smirked, “becuase being out of bed after curfew is something she’d  _ never _ do.”

The Muggle-born tossed her bushy, brown hair over one shoulder, rolled her eyes, and sighed.

“Well,” she scoffed, “I just meant she’d never try to go against Fluffy like that.  _ Plus _ , what are the odds that she loses her memory and tries to break into the forbidden corridor the very same day  _ you  _ hear Quirrell finally give in and tell Snape how to—”

“Hermione _ , what are you talking about? _ ” Phoenix nearly shouted. 

Harry, Ron, and Hermione all looked to each other, guilt eating at their expressions as they silently contemplated who would have to tell Phoenix that they’d kept something from her...something extremely important.

“Well,” Ron said. His face was as red as his hair. “Harry heard Quirrell talking and—erm—he sort of sounded—”

“Like he was being threatened,” Harry finished. “Look, we know Snape met with him in the Forbidden Forest after the match, yeah? And you said that Quirrell was afraid of him then.”

“Yeah, so?” Phoenix crossed her arms over her chest. 

“I think it happened again.”

A group of first-year Slytherins cheered for Potter as they passed, praising him for letting them get ahead in the House Cup. He, Phoenix, and Ron all glared at them as they laughed and disappeared into the Potions classroom.

“Ignore them,” Hermione whispered. Her arm found its way around Phoenix’s elbow; she gave a gentle squeeze, but the shorter girl was more concerned with finishing Harry’s story. 

“Did you see Snape?”

“No,” Harry admitted, looking just beyond Phoenix. 

“Did you hear his voice?”

“No,” he said again. “But it had to be hi—”

“No, Harry, it didn’t  _ have to be _ anybody,” she hissed through gritted teeth. “I know you don’t like him, but Professor Snape may not be the one who’s trying to get to the Stone.”

“This is why we didn’t tell you,” Ron quipped. 

He made his way down the hall with Harry, leaving Phoenix standing strangely to the side, Hermione still wound around her arm. Somehow, being alone with Hermione in the cold, grey dungeons was more comforting than she’d have imagined. She could hear the Muggle-born’s breathing. 

After a moment to recollect herself, Phoenix grabbed Hermione’s book bag, which had been slipping from her shoulder, and pulled them both towards the classroom. 

 

During lessons that day, all of the Gryffindor students noticed that Professor Snape was oddly... _ sympathetic _ . Even as he walked around the room, checking each and every cauldron, his gaze would always somehow find Phoenix. It was not the prideful, irritating look he often reserved for her—which, many were certain, was only used to make the rest of the class feel even more useless; as if praising one of them was meant to somehow diminish the rest of their small accomplishments—but one that communicated concern. 

Phoenix began to wonder whether or not the Potions Master was worried about her. 

“Take another point for Gryffindor, Miss Skimple,” he said, startling Phoenix, who was carefully rereading his instructions. “You are the only one in this class who, beside Miss Granger, seems to have stirred it the correct number of times  _ counterclockwise _ .” At this, Hermione beamed. “But, unlike your friend,  _ you _ remembered to wait the proper amount of time before adding the lionfish spines.”

The girl’s smile fell. Once the professor was out of earshot, Phoenix whispered, “You did amazing, ’Mione, and don’t let him tell you otherwise.” 

But Snape continued to send her sideways glances that reminded her of McGonagall’s thin-lipped brand of maternal protection. She, of course, was not the only one to notice this odd behavior in their professor.

“I swear,” Ron whined as they practically raced out of the dungeons, “with all the points he’s given you in his class, you’ve more than made up for what you lost last night.”

“ _ Without _ the extra twenty-five points from McGonagall,” Harry added. 

Phoenix signed, glad they were somehow beyond that morning’s disagreement. 

“Actually,” she said, blushing. “Snape’s only given me twenty-three points all year.”

“That’s twenty-three more than he’s given me,” Ron quipped. “And how did you remember that? Do you tally them down or something?”

“Write it in your journal?” Harry teased. 

Phoenix slapped them each playfully on the arm. 

“I’ve a memory for numbers like that,” she bragged. She tossed her hair over one shoulder and pouted her lips, then took a deep breath through her nose; it was meant to be camp and ingenuine, but the Slytherins across the hall began to jeer. Her face fell. 

“Besides,” she continued, her voice low, “Fred and George are watching how many I earn...The more points Gryffindor House receives, the more harmless pranks they can pull without feeling too guilty.”

 

Hemera arrived during morning break, passing over the courtyard to the excitement of many Gryffindor students. 

“Phoenix!” someone shouted. 

The little owl landed on the girl’s shoulder, fluffed her feathers with pride, and held out her leg; she’d taught herself to stand perfectly still while Phoenix or whomever untied the letter, and she’d wait patiently for some form of payment. Phoenix grabbed an owl treat from inside of her robes and fed it to Hemera, who clicked her beak happily and took off, the girl noted, in the direction of Professor McGonagall’s office. 

“Who’s it from?” Hermione asked. 

 

_ Your detention will take place at eleven o’clock tonight.  _

_ Meet Mr. Filch in the entrance hall.  _

 

“McGonagall,” Phoenix sighed. “Who else?”

She watched the turret behind which Hemera had disappeared and waited; just as the bell rang, a snowy owl came into view.

“Harry,” she muttered, “I think there’s one for you, too.”

 

*              A              *              S              *              B              *

 

Half an hour before they were meant to meet with Filch, Phoenix found herself packing. What for, she had no idea, but the idea of having  _ something _ on her person that could be useful or entertaining made her feel slightly better with her situation. She stuffed her wand into an inner pocket of her robes, threw her Weasley sweater over her shirt, and grabbed one of the few remaining candy bars Hermione had given her for Christmas; out of things that seemed practical to bring to a detention, she gave up and headed down the spiral staircase.  

“Ready to go?” she asked. Her voice was low and raspy; anyone could tell she was exhausted, but she had a long and potentially difficult night ahead. 

Harry nodded, then said good-bye to Ron and Hermione. 

“Be careful,” said the latter to Phoenix.

“Always.”

The pair walked slowly toward the Entrance Hall and only picked up their pace when Filch, impatient and ill-tempered as always, held up a lamp in their direction and told them to get a move on. They followed him out onto the grounds, headed, it seemed, towards the edge of the forest, where Hagrid’s hut could just be seen through the dim starlight. 

“I bet you’ll think twice before breaking a school rule again, won’t you, eh?” he asked in a voice as greasy as his thinning hair. 

“Sir?” Phoenix asked in a pitch much too smooth and unaffected for a student in her situation—maneuvering through the dark, behind a man known for his love of punishment, toward the Forbidden Forest, a place where many full-grown wizards would not dare to venture at this time of night. “Are you aware that we are, in fact, Gryffindors?”

Filch hesitated in taking his next step, but continued.  

“I am.” His voice wavered. “What’s your point, Miss Skimple?”

“My point is,” Phoenix smirked, “that you just told two Gryffindors to think before reacting...For future reference, forethought isn’t our greatest quality.”

Harry swallowed a laugh, but could not help the wicked smile that bared too many teeth. He covered his mouth quickly with the sleeve of his robe and pretended to cough, but Filch was more focused now on something in the distance.

“Is that you, Filch?” It was Hagrid; Phoenix let out a relieved sigh and, beside her, Harry seemed to breathe easier. “Hurry up, I want ter get started.”

“Are we going into the Forest?” Phoenix asked excitedly. 

Filch shot her a quizzical look. 

“Yes. And I’m sure you know what’s in there?” he asked. He was happier than Phoenix had ever seen him—the prospect of scaring and endangering students was too wonderful to him. 

Phoenix quietly pondered how he got the job.

“Centaurs,” she answered easily, “and Thestrals. Maybe a pack of werewolves, if the rumours are true.”

Harry swallowed audibly, but Phoenix challenged Filch with eye contact; she wasn’t afraid of the Forbidden Forest, or any of the creatures and half-breeds therein. She was trying to take the joy out of the caretaker’s malicious pleasure, and the scowl she received in return told her she had succeeded.

“I’ll be back at dawn,” he spat, “for what’s left of them.”

Harry, Phoenix, and Hagrid watched the caretaker a moment as he stalked back up toward the castle. Fang, barely visible, panted in the gamekeeper’s shadow.

“Well,” Hagrid said, holding his lamp up above their heads; the light it cast was yellow and thin, but it reached far enough to illuminate a small, winding path that began just beyond the trees. “There’s our way, righ’ there. It’s bes’ we get goin’.”

“But what exactly are we doing?” Phoenix asked. 

“Look there,” Hagrid said, his voice low and conspiratorial; his eyes darted toward the trees, as if he expected something, or someone, to be listening.. “See that stuff shinin’ on the ground? Silvery stuff? That’s unicorn blood. There’s a unicorn in there bin badly hurt by summat.”

“A unicorn?” Phoenix spat. “Who’d want to hurt a  _ unicorn _ ?”

“It’s our job to find out what.”

Hagrid looked between the two students, his lips pursed beneath his bushy beard. He grabbed a crossbow that Phoenix hadn’t noticed was leaning against the front steps.

“Is that for—?”

But Hagrid didn’t answer her. Without a word, he led Fang, Harry, and Phoenix through the forest until she could see nothing of the castle grounds through the tree line, but the blood that was spattered against the roots and underbrush remained brilliant and shining as ever in the shallow lamp light. Fang sniffed the silvery liquid as he passed, but never fell far behind the gamekeeper.

The group stayed silent for some time, cautious and anxious, their heads spinning to search for the source of each and every noise—every twig that snapped, every low hoot that reverberated through the dense woods. Phoenix was certain they were being watched, but chalked it up to her nerves. Harry, behind her, kept moving subtly closer.

“Hagrid?”

The gamekeeper jumped in surprise. “What?” he nearly shouted. 

But Phoenix didn’t have time to respond; something had caught his ear and he grabbed both Gryffindors by the backs of their robes, lift them off of the dirt path, and placed them behind a large oak tree. The moment their feet hit the ground, he reached into his coat and began fitting an arrow clumsily into his crossbow. 

Hagrid raised his weapon; Harry was practically standing on his toes, ready to run; Fang was completely stiff. They were all listening to something in the distance. 

Phoenix, for one, felt insufficiently scared. 

“I can’t hea—”

“SHUSH!” 

So she felt silent, but only because everyone else seemed so ludicrously concerned. All she could hear—besides the various howls and hoots from animals they’d been hearing all night—was the strangely silky movement of leaves against…

Oh…

_ Oh, that _ was what had them worried. It sounded distinctly like fresh, spring leaves being dragged by the edges of a wizard’s cloak...but that couldn’t possibly be,  _ could it? _

When the noise stopped, and Hagrid seemed ready to leave their hiding spot, Phoenix asked in a quiet, quivering breath:

“You don’t think that was a  _ person _ , do you, Hagrid?”

“Wasn’ no unicorn,” he answered, keeping his crossbow ready as he moved slowly back onto the path. “Tha’s fer sure.”

Harry pushed past Phoenix and tried to catch a glimpse of where the sound should have been coming from; his eyes searched the darkness enthusiastically as the gamekeeper checked to make sure the opposite end of the visible path was clear. 

“A werewolf?” the former suggested. 

“Not fast enough,” Hagrid whispered. “Maybe we should keep goin’ this way, jus’ to stay out o’ trouble. No reason two students shoul’ be chasin’ after...whatever  _ tha’ _ was. Come on, Fang.”

But as Phoenix watched the others travel down the winding dirt path, aided by their dim lamplight and growling, cowardly boar-hound, the smallest Gryffindor stayed behind; it was as if her feet wouldn’t move, her mouth wouldn’t open to protest, her arms were stuck by her sides. 

 

Phoenix had the rare, unhelpful gift of being incredibly aware of when she was dreaming. Unlike now, as she fought the urge to fall back into that strangely blissful state of sleep. She could see her companions not far away, talking to some indistinguishable creature, but her body would not move to meet them; they turned, waved to her, and brought several massive, beautiful centaurs into sight. Even then—in what should have been her excitement at seeing such wonderful, aloof creatures—Phoenix could not find the will to move.

“Hagrid,” she tried to say, but no voice came out. 

The expression on his face, even from this distance, read concerned; he took off in the opposite direction, crossbow raised, with Harry and Fang in tow. Phoenix noted how the centaurs began to eye her suspiciously. 

She ran. 

With a speed she did not know she possessed, she ran. Toward the heart of the forest, with only the silver-white moonlight that broke through the trees, she ran and tripped and  _ ran _ . 

But it wasn’t her; she had no control over her body—she was glad she’d kept some control over her  _ mind _ . 

And if the potential threat of being under some powerful curse wasn’t enough, then the stamping of hooves that came ever faster and pulled ever closer was enough to make her panic. Her breath was caught somewhere in her throat and she suddenly stopped. 

Phoenix kept her hands on her knees, feeling the cold forest air sting her insides with each and every heavy breath. The blackness around her was immense, but she focused her eyes on the silver glow before her. 

“Oh, no,” she whispered. 

The sound of hooves behind her was gone—

Hagrid was somewhere on the other side of the Forbidden Forest—

The little bit of moonlight that had been guiding her had dimmed, hidden behind the dense gathering of trees—

This was never a time to find a mangled unicorn carcass, but Phoenix wished she could at least have some will over her own limbs. The silver-blue glow of its blood saturated the damp earth at her feet, but very little else was visible through the pitch black night. 

And then the creature appeared.

It crawled over the blood, staining its dark body as it worked its way slowly toward the corpse. It seemed not to notice Phoenix at first, but—as she focused her eyes and finally caught more than shadows through the dim light—she saw the distinct, flowing silhouette of a cloak and hood; it raised its head, offered Phoenix a wide grin, and slithered to the unicorn’s side. The girl felt herself shiver as it lowered its mouth to the poor animal’s open wound and drink the silver-blue blood. 

Phoenix had the rare, unhelpful gift of being incredibly aware of when she was dreaming. Unlike now, as her fingers began to move of their own accord, twisting themselves around her wand.

_ “Where’s the boy?”  _ a voice inside her head hissed _ , “She was meant to bring the boy!” _

Harry. They were after Harry. 

Of course! How could she be so  _ stupid? _ How could Dumbledore and McGonagall possibly think that sending him into the Forbidden Forest in the middle of the night was a good idea? He was the Boy-Who-Lived, for goodness’s sake! 

So Phoenix now knew two things: first, that someone was trying to break into the castle to steal the Sorcerer’s Stone, and second, that someone was  _ also _ trying to get to Harry Potter. Whether or not these two things were related, she did not know, but it seemed very likely as Harry had set himself to defend the Stone. 

_ “She’s out of your control.” _

Phoenix’s heart began pounding against her rib cage; she could barely hear the voice above the sound of her own pulse. She found herself raising her wand, aiming at something in the distance. She barely noticed the stomping of hooves drawing near behind her.

_ “Drop your wand,”  _ the voice said. It was the first time it had addressed  _ her _ directly and she wished she’d never have to hear it again; of course, she would never be so lucky.  _ “Drop your wand, now.” _

The hooves again. If the centaurs could find her, then maybe she could make it out of this alive; she doubted that any of Hagrid’s friends would leave her to die…

The creature leaned over the unicorn, leering at her from under its dark hood.

_ “Drop your wand. _ ”

She held on tighter. A single breath in, one out, all by her control. She closed her eyes, taking herself by surprise. Then her fingers wrapped around the rowan wood and she took a last, shaking breath.

“Never.”

A pause. 

_ “Get her.” _

The creature lurched forward and drew itself up on two feet. Phoenix pointed her wand directly at its head, but didn’t have time to cast a spell; just as she moved her lips to speak the incantation, the sound of hooves penetrated the air once again, louder now than ever. Something jumped over her head and she fell backwards into a thick knot of roots. 

She watched as the centaur moved into the light, kicking and stamping the hooded creature, who quickly retreated into the shadows of the underbrush behind it. Phoenix laid still, watching the spot where the figure had vanished. 

“Who are you?” the centaur asked, drawing Phoenix out of her thoughts. He was white-blond—a color that stung, too alike to the blood that was still so vivid in the background. He had a palomino body and striking blue eyes. 

“Phoe—” she shook her head. “I mean, Asteria Skimple.” 

“It is good to meet you,” he said. “My name is Firenze. I must return you to Hagrid now, I believe.”

He then lowered himself onto his front legs, but Phoenix still had to jump with all of her strength to swing one leg over his back. She took a steadying breath as he brought himself back to his normal height. 

“Are you alright?” 

“I think I forgot to breathe,” she laughed, “with that creature and all.”

“I’m not surprised,” he offered. His soothing voice was so different from the cold, high-pitched one that had penetrated her mind moments earlier. “Do you mind if I run?”

She gulped a mouthful of air.

“No, it’s fine.”

 

*              A              *              S               *              B              *

 

The rest of the night passed through a dream-like haze, wherein the centaurs argued and Hagrid and Harry worried over Phoenix, but the young girl heard none of it. It was as if everything was in the distance, the voices clouded and distorted. She blamed the curse. 

Phoenix was glad to fall asleep that night in her own bed—with a mental note to ask Harry what had happened after her encounter with the creature—but less so when her nightmares featured a familiar green flash and a woman’s terrified scream. Gone was Sirius Black and his kind eyes; gone were the soft words he’d speak to her, reassuring her in her sleep; now was all death and malicious glee. 

 

Phoenix woke later that night, her heart pounding in her chest, as the words played over and over in her head. 

“ _ Drop your wand.” _

It was not the cold voice of the hooded creature, but something new that tormented her; a woman’s gutteral growl. The sound itself was enough to frighten any full-grown wizard—a warning, full of passion and anxiety; one of a skilled opponent backed into a corner, ready to strike—but the feeling it was the feeling it invoked in her that was so stirring. Because Phoenix had the rare, unhelpful gift of being incredibly aware of when she was dreaming, and this was much more than a dream.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment! I love your love, and I love fixing things for you!  
> I've missed you guys <3
> 
> “I bet you’ll think twice before breaking a school rule again, won’t you, eh?” and “Is that you, Filch? Hurry up, I want ter get started.” page 248.  
> “I’ll be back at dawn...for what’s left of them.” page 249.   
> “I found one dead last Wednesday.” page 250.


	16. Through the Trapdoor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long! School has been insane lately, and I just never had time to write! But I just finished the semester, so I should have the last chapter up within a week or so, I promise. Also, I really wanted to push this out, so I'm sorry if it has some errors.
> 
> Please, comment and tell me what you think! I love hearing from y'all.
> 
> Also, for those of you who don't know, I have a new fic called "Spruce and Dogwood." It's a Marauder's Era story about Phoenix's mother.

They met in the common room early the following morning—Harry with his burning scar and Phoenix with the vague impression of her nightmares. Ron and Hermione had each been given something of a summary of the events the night before, but even Harry didn’t know the details of the creature she’d seen. As she recounted it all, their jaws fell. 

“It was  _ speaking _ to you?” Ron whispered urgently. 

“Well, at first, I guess it was talking  _ about  _ me,” she explained. “It was almost like the creature itself was being told what to do and the voice was coming from somewhere else, almost like it was...inside my head.”

Phoenix took a breath, preparing herself for what she was about to say; her eyes were closed when she muttered, “And then it said that I was supposed to bring ‘the boy.’”

Hermione and Ron shared a wide-eyed glance, then turned to Harry, who seemed to have come to the same conclusion. But what Phoenix didn’t remember was the warning Firenze, the centaur, had given them both the night before about the sort of creature that would dare drink the blood of a unicorn:  _ “You have slain something so pure and defenseless to save yourself, and you will have but a half-life, a cursed life, from the moment the blood touches your lips...Can you think of nobody who has waited many years to return to power, who has clung to life, awaiting their chance?” _

“It was Voldemort,’ Harry stated, a hint of defiance in his tone. “Nyx, what you saw last night was Voldemort. Firenze told us when he brought you back to Hagrid and me.”

“Would you stop saying the name!” Ron shouted.

Hermione shushed him, then turned back to comfort Phoenix, who’d turned a strange, blotchy red. 

“ _ That _ was Lord Voldemort?” 

Ron hissed again, but they ignored him. Phoenix’s chest rose as she took ever-deepening breaths; she was incensed that something so vile and repugnant could have taken control of her, and it was in this moment that she vowed she’d never let him do it again.

“Nyx, it’s okay, everyone came out of the forest alrigh—”

“No, Hermione, it isn’t alright! Voldemort slaughtered countless innocents!”

“Including my parents.”

The room went silent. Nobody dared moved; Ron and Hermione’s shoulders sagged and their eyes fell to the floor. But Phoenix kept staring at Harry with a mixture of remorse and sympathy.

“And mine.” She said it with such certainty that, had she not believed it before, she would now without qualm—she’d never been told her parents were killed by Voldemort, but every nightmare, every flash of green light, every high-pitched cackle suddenly made sense. Perhaps Voldemort hadn’t murdered them personally, like he had the Potters, but his faithful followers had. 

Harry’s glare shifted. 

“We can’t let him get to the Stone.”

 

Now that they’d already been caught trying to sneak into the out-of-bounds corridor, it was infinitely more risky for either Harry or Phoenix to guard Fluffy. Even Ron and Hermione were finding it difficult to get enough time to press their ears against the door and listen for his usual panting; each time they got near enough to touch the door, some professor or other would peer down the corridor looking for signs of trouble. It was frustrating being unable to tell whether or not Voldemort had gotten to the Stone, but there was very little they could do without risking expulsion. 

Of course, with end-of-term exams coming up, it was also much easier to become distracted. Hermione carried around as many of her course books as she could—at  _ all  _ times—and would sneak in readings whenever she had a moment to spare; Phoenix was finally able to convince her to study outside, which they did in the shade of a giant tree by the edge of the Black Lake. Harry and Ron would sit beside them with their books open on the dewey grass. 

“I don’t understand it!” Ron groaned the day before their Transfiguration exam. “How does she expect us to practice both the Avifors Spell  _ and _ learn to turn a mouse into a needle? It’s insane!”

“If you’d practiced your incantations  _ during class _ , like you were supposed to, Ron,” Hermione huffed, “then maybe you wouldn’t need to cram this all in right before the test.”

“Nyx,” he whined, “can you help me?”

“It’s one thing writing an essay for you,” Phoenix sighed, reclining back onto her elbows and carefully stretching her legs over a copy of  _ Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection _ . “But I can’t really do the spell for you. If I did, then you still would have no clue how to do it yourself; so long as you have the incantation and the proper wand movement—which you do—all there’s left to do is practice.

“And besides,” she added with a laugh, “we’re supposed to be turning it into a snuffbox, not a needle.”

Harry barely looked up during this exchange. He’d been engrossed in one of the books Phoenix had given him entitled  _ Moste Macabre Monstrosities _ for the past hour, refusing to read any of his Transfiguration texts, which Hermione had laid out for him to study. Mere thought of the exams seemed to be giving both him and Ron sick stomachs. 

They weren’t the only ones who were worried, however. Hermione, with all her brains, was quickly going insane. Despite having already finished their examination for McGonagall that morning, Phoenix found the Muggle-born just past midnight the next day with her nose inches from her notes, reviewing the lecture on the Avifors Spell that’d been outlined in their study charts. 

“‘Mione,” Phoenix mumbled groggily, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, “we’ve already done that one.”

She watched as the tension in Hermione’s back subsided—her spine rolled and her shoulders sagged. She took a few deep breaths and sighed.

“You should go to bed.”

Hermione nodded. Her eyes were trained out of the window toward the sky above the castle grounds, where a single owl flew, disrupting the pale light that filtered through the clouds. 

“Now, ‘Mione,” Phoenix added. “You need to go to bed  _ now _ , or you’ll never have the energy to make it through exams tomorrow.”

The Muggle-born did as told, but Phoenix could tell it was reluctantly. Now, more than ever, she considered what Marinia had told her: how Hermione was afraid of becoming an outcast to this new, exciting world of magic...a world in which she’d barely been introduced. 

“You’re brilliant, Hermione. You’ll do fine. Sweet dreams.”

 

*              A              *              S              *              B              *

 

After a week of cramming for exams, struggling to remember the ingredients for a Forgetfulness Potion, and making pineapples tapdance across their desks in Charms, the first-year Gryffindors finally had a moment to breathe. It took some time to convince Hermione  _ not _ to go back over the materials and notes from their tests—Ron claimed it made him sick to think back on his potential mistakes—but the four eventually made their way to the edge of the lake again, where dozens of other students were winding down from the stress of their exams.

“Isn’t that your sister?” Hermione asked, gesturing to someone on the opposite side of the lake. “Should we say hello?”

Marinia was setting out a large, yellow and black blanket beneath a low-hanging tree. Behind her, barely hidden in the shadows of the branches, Alexandria laughed as she searched through a woven picnic basket. 

Phoenix smiled.

“Yeah,” she said. “But she’s out with her—er—close friend. I think we should just let them alone for now.” 

Maybe someday soon she’d tell Hermione about Alex, but now didn’t seem the right time. First and foremost, Marinia hadn’t yet given her permission to reveal something so... _ controversial?  _ Phoenix wasn’t certain whether it was the right word to use in this case, but it seemed to fit.

“Looks like they’ve got the right idea,” Ron joked, pointing over at the two girls, who were now stretched out on the blanket with several plates of food and sweets laid out beside them. The basket was laying on its side at the base of the tree, completely forgotten. “No more studying, no more stress. And a whole week left until we find out how badly we’ve done.”

Hermione shot him a fearful glare. 

“Come on, ’Mione,” Harry said, “it’s not like we can change anything now. It’s done. No use worrying about it.” 

Phoenix reached out and patted the Muggle-born on her back; Hermione relaxed into the touch and reclined, leaning against the trunk of the tree and bringing her practically face-to-face with the other girl. A few moments passed in content silence, until Harry jolted forward, grasping at his forehead.

“What’s wrong?” Ron asked as his best friend hissed in pain. 

“Your scar again?” Hermione supplied. She narrowed her eyes. “Do you think  _ he _ ’s here?” 

Phoenix was the first one on her feet.

“Where are you going?” Hermione asked, her focus on Harry temporarily shattered. 

“Hagrid’s,” Phoenix said. She stared down at them all, eyebrows raised expectantly, then began to gesture toward the forest’s edge, where the hut was just barely visible. “Come on, we have to go!”

They all did as told, and it was a matter of seconds before the four students were practically sprinting across the castle grounds. 

“Why—exactly—are we—doing—this?” Ron asked through his panting. His face was starting to turn red. “Why Hagrid?”

Phoenix did not answer him, though; she’d reached the gameskeeper’s garden, where he sat in a giant armchair shelling peas into a bowl so large that Phoenix thought she would be able to sit in it quite comfortably. Harry was right behind her, then Ron. Hermione was the last to arrive, and Phoenix could see a spot of green on her knee where the Muggle-born had tripped and landed in the grass. 

Perhaps she went too fast, she thought, but this was extremely important.

“Hullo.” Hagrid smiled. “Would you like some—”

“I’m really sorry, Hagrid, but I have to know how you got Norbert.” She said it all in one strained breath. Her legs were shaking; she leaned forward and placed her hands on her knees, but this only made it harder to breathe. 

“Take yer time,” Hagrid laughed, tapping a bare space on the steps beside him. “Come an’ sit with me. We’ll have a little bit o’ tea.”

“Yes, please,” Ron said quickly, regaining his voice. 

Phoenix wanted to shoot him a warning look, but didn’t have the time. Around her, Harry, Hermione, and Ron stood still, their faces twisted in obvious confusion.

“Please, Hagrid, this is urgent,” Phoenix explained. “Whoever gave you that dragon egg is trying to break into the castle and steal the Sorcerer’s Stone. I  _ need _ to know who it was.”

The gameskeeper’s face fell. 

“Well, I don’ know,” he said. “Never saw his face, really.”

“Hold on a second,” Harry added. “You took a dragon from a complete stranger and couldn’t see his  _ face _ ?”

“Not tha’ unusual. I met him at the Hog’s Head.”

Phoenix sighed.

“It’s a pub,” she explained to Harry and Hermione, who still seemed incredibly confused, “where a lot of people come in wearing strange clothes. I don’t know why they do it, but my mum said that it’s not a place where respectible wizards go. No offense, Hagrid.”

“None taken,” he grumbled. “But I’m curious. Why’re you askin’ about the man who gave me Norbert? Why is that so important?”

“Because you wanted a dragon, yeah? What are the chances you’ll run into someone who just happens to own a dragon egg?

“An  _ illegal _ dragon egg,” Harry added for good measure. “And all while you’re in a pub.”

The  _ and completely, blubberingly drunk _ bit was implied. By now, Ron, Hermione, and Harry seemed to be catching on.

“Hold on,” Ron butted in, “you don’t think Hagrid would say something secret, do you?”

“Not at all,” Phoenix fibbed. “But even something that sounds innocent could turn out to be useful...What did you tell him Hagrid?”

“Did you talk about Fluffy?” Harry suggested. 

“As a matter o’ fac’, I did,” Hagrid smiled. “Tol’ him all about him. O’ course, he wanted ter be sure I could handle a it, he didn’ want it going ter any old home...So I told him, after Fluffy, a dragon would be easy.”

“And how, exactly, do you handle Fluffy?” Phoenix asked. “I mean, he must have wanted to know. A three-headed dog can’t be too similar to a dragon.”

“Well, Fluffy’s a piece o’ cake if yeh know how ter calm him down, jus’ play him a bit o’ music an’ he’ll go straight off ter sleep.” The color drained from what little of his face they could see through his bushy beard. His voice dropped. “I shouldn’ o’ told yeh that.”

Harry turned to Phoenix; when he spoke next, his voice was so low that Ron and Hermione, on either side of him, strained to hear. 

“Someone knew that Hagrid owned Fluffy and now they know how to get past him.”

Something unspoken passed between the four of them. They understood that they had to leave immediately, or else the Sorcerer’s Stone could find itself in the hands of Lord Voldemort, the most dangerous Dark wizard of all time. 

“I have an idea. Meet me in the common room in a few minutes,” Phoenix said. With a final glance at the forest’s edge, she began running once again, this time toward the castle steps. 

“Thanks, Hagrid,” she shouted over her shoulder. 

 

*              A              *              S              *              B              *

 

“We ran into Professor McGonagall,” Harry explained, lowering his voice so that the small group of fifth years by the window wouldn’t overhear them. “She told us that Dumbledore left for the Ministry earlier today.”

“And now she knows that  _ we _ know about the Sorcerer’s Stone, yes?” Phoenix accused. “And she’ll have the professors watching us a little more closely?”

Ron turned red. 

“Well, if you didn’t want us telling her, you should have let us in on your plan!” 

“No, Ron,’ Phoenix smiled, “this is a good thing. If the professors are keeping an eye on that corridor, then it’ll be harder for one of them to sneak off and steal the Stone. This will give Snape a harder time...if he’s the one trying to get to it, I mean.”

Hermione still seemed skeptical; she furrowed her brow in thought and pursed her lips. For a moment, Phoenix thought that she might be irritated or angry, but her expression quickly softened.

“Most of them won’t have an Invisibility Cloak,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “And they’re definitely not expecting us to have one.”

A pause. 

“So…” Phoenix rasped. “Are you in?”

Ron smiled that wide, mischievous grin she’d seen grace the twins’ faces a million times and Harry nodded; she felt Hermione’s arm wind around her elbow once more, giving a reassuring squeeze. 

The plan was to sneak into the out-of-bounds corridor in turns. As only three of the four students could fit comfortably under the Cloak at a time—without accidentally revealing their feet, or tripping on the hem—it was decided that Harry would get Hermione and Phoenix safely inside the door, then return to the common room for Ron. Phoenix understood that this meant she’d have to keep Fluffy asleep until the boys arrived, but, if what Hagrid said was true, then the task would be easy enough. 

Since many of the students still hadn’t forgiven Harry (and Phoenix) for losing all those points from Gryffindor, the four first years were the left alone in the common room that evening after dinner; they each sat silently, Hermione searching her notes for useful spells, Harry and Ron staring into the lit fire, wondering what could possibly be hidden beneath the three-headed dog. Phoenix sat between Harry and Hermione with her legs crossed, feet tucked beneath her. She was nervous of what she might find in the out-of-bounds corridors, and, though her hand had healed and the bandages removed from her last encounter with Fluffy, she swore she could still feel the subtle sting where the skin had been torn. 

It was very late when the last student, Lee Jordan, finally left the common room. 

“Better get the Cloak,” Ron muttered out of the corner of his mouth. 

Harry stood and made his way to the dormitories upstairs. He must have missed Neville, who stalked down to search for his missing toad, because when he returned with the Cloak and the flute Hagrid had given him for Christmas, he said aloud, without checking that the common room was clear, “We’d better put the Cloak on here, and make sure it covers—”

“All four of us, right?” Phoenix interrupted, staring at Harry pointedly in the hope of getting her point across. “So that we can scare the twins and...get back at them for...um...their dungbomb prank.”

Harry’s face twisted. He opened his mouth to rebuttal, but he must have seen Neville out of the corner of his eye, because it stayed agape for quite some time. 

“What are you doing?” the round-faced boy asked. Trevor was kicking and wriggling, trying to escape his hold. “You’re going out again, aren’t you?”

“No, no, no,” Hermione tried to dissuade him. “No, we’re not. Why don’t you go to bed, Neville?”

But he didn’t look ready to move; on the contrary, he became rigid, his feet planted firmly on the floor. He was steeling himself for a fight. Phoenix grasped her wand tighter. Slowly, she made her way around the squashy armchairs toward the portrait hole, where Neville stood shivering, his fists raised. Trevor the toad fell to the floor and happily dove under the nearest table, glad to be free of the pain and tension of his owner’s grip. 

Neville’s eyes followed her, but the rest of his body seemed unable to move. 

“We’re going now, Neville,” she stated calmly. Her wrist twitched and the boy’s eyes widened as he realized the wand in her hand, though kept level with her waist, was no pointed at  _ his  _ chest. “This is very important.”

“You’re going to lose more points from Gryffindor!” he nearly shouted. “You’re going to get in trouble again. And I’ll—I’ll—I’ll  _ report you _ . Yeah, I’ll tell McGonagall that you’re—”

Phoenix came to a stop several feet in front of him and raised her wand.

“I don’t want to hurt you, Neville,” she explained, her voice a hoarse whisper, flooded with determined remorse, “but we have to go, and I cannot let you stop us.”

There was a moment when Phoenix thought he might back down: his shoulders relaxed and his eyes fell, discouraged, to the floor. But the moment quickly passed. 

“Go on then, try and hit me!” Neville said. 

He jumped forward, reaching for Phoenix’s wand. She had practiced defensive spells—learned all she could from Jasper’s fifth-year Defense Against the Dark Arts textbooks. She could have easily stopped Neville from taking her wand, but she didn’t have time. In the second it took for her to whisper the incantation  _ Stupefy _ , the boy had already fallen, his body completely rigid, arms stuck at his sides. He peered worriedly up at her, pleading silently for her help.

Phoenix turned to see who’d cast the spell. She expected Harry or Ron to have their wands raised, but the boys were staring, wide-eyed, from the center of the circle of armchairs, looking quite as lost as Neville. Several feet behind Phoenix, Hermione was lowering her wand. 

“Full Body-Bind,” she explained. 

“Brilliant,” Phoenix whispered, earning a smirk from the taller girl. “We’ve got to go. Someone could have gotten into the corridor by now.” 

Underneath the Cloak, Phoenix kept her wand at the ready. She was certain they’d run into some professor near the out-of-bounds corridor, but they reached the top of the final staircase, then the final turn, and their path was clear...everything was far too quiet for her taste. 

“The door is open,” Harry whispered. He lifted one edge of the Cloak and peered inside; there was a low, piercing growl, and his head whipped backward so quickly that Phoenix was almost certain he’d been smacked. “Fluffy’s awake...and he knows we’re here.”

“Give Hermione the flute,” Phoenix ordered, “and go and get Ron. We’ll wait for you inside as long as we can.”

They slipped under the hem, careful not to be seen by any lurking professor or wandering ghost—the last thing they needed right now was a surprise visit from Peeves—and Hermione began to breathe a sort of hollow tune into the flute. It was slow and broken, like a half-remembered lullaby, but the three-headed dog began to sway heavily across the stone floor before the girls had even closed the door behind them.

“Great lug,” Phoenix pouted, moving to pat the giant, black creature as it bowed its final head to rest atop the others. She looked down by its feet, where a small gold harp lay on its side, apparently knocked over while the three-headed dog swayed. “There’s a harp by its feet. Whoever got past Fluffy must have left it here.

“And there’s the trapdoor,” she muttered. Phoenix could just barely see the handle poking out from beneath one of Fluffy’s giant paws. She got onto her knees, put her shoulder against it, and pushed as, inch by inch, the outline of the trapdoor came into view. 

That was when she noticed the blood coming from a wound on Fluffy’s paw, which she had just aggravated by forcing it across the stone floor. There was a thin sweep of scarlet at her feet and, beneath the paw, a puddle was beginning to slowly form. 

Phoenix examined the injury as best she could without moving the dog once again. It was clean—not only had it clearly been washed, for which she was secretly grateful, but the cut itself was precise—it had clearly been made by some sort of spell. If she were to wager a guess, someone had used the Severing Charm against him, though she couldn’t understand  _ why _ they’d need to, if he’d already been asleep, as the presence of the harp suggested. 

“Hermione,” she said, voice timid, “Do you know a spell that could...do this?”

By now, Hermione’s cheeks were red and her forehead was scrunched.

“Are you alright?” Phoenix asked, but Hermione couldn’t answer; she was too afraid that Fluffy would wake up the moment she stopped playing to give a verbal response. Instead, she nodded her head slowly. “I’m not convinced you are. You look out of breath already. Maybe I can figure out a way to make this harp play by itself.”

The notes began to come out short, with longer pauses in between. Phoenix set the harp upright and ran the tip of her wand across the strings. After several vain attempts to charm the instrument, she finally began to pluck a painful tune with her fingers. Hermione stopped and took a deep breath. 

“Thank you,” she finally gasped. “They’re taking a bit longer than I expected.”

“Same here,” Phoenix muttered. 

“And you didn’t try anything non-verbal with the harp,” Hermione teased, stalking carefully to the trapdoor. With a wary glance at the three-headed dog, she grabbed the handle and swung the door open. “I can’t see anything.”

“What do you mean?” Phoenix asked, retiring one hand to give the redness on her fingers a chance to subside.

“It’s completely dark, all the way down.”

“No, what do you mean by  _ non-verbal _ ? If there’s anyone who can do that, it’s  _ you _ .” 

Hermione stood up from the trapdoor and crossed the room, taking her turn at the harp. 

“I  _ mean _ ,” she laughed, “you’ve done non-verbal magic before when you were nervous. Have you tried it since? It could come in useful, you know.”

Phoenix thought for a moment; the boys weren’t back yet, and the strings were surprisingly painful for such a beautifully sounding instrument. Neither she nor Hermione seemed keen on playing much longer. 

“Sure,” she mumbled, “but I don’t know how good it’ll come out.”

She raised her wand. One tap, but there was no difference. A deep breath. A second tap, and a single string hummed eagerly. Phoenix squinted, held the wand at one end of the harp, then dragged it across the strings. Hermione retracted her hands as it passed. 

Harry was the first to emerge from the Cloak; his hair was ruffled (moreso than usual) and he seemed quite out of breath. Ron, behind him, slammed the door shut, then said, “You’d never guess who we ran into!”

Phoenix and Hermione were both crouched over the open trapdoor, peering through the darkness. The harp sat playing on the opposite side of Fluffy. 

“Peeves?” Phoenix remarked offhandedly. “Or was it Filch?”

“Peeves,” Harry admitted. 

“How do you always do that?”

“Easy,” Phoenix chuckled. “McGonagall would have spotted you, Hagrid would have come along  _ with _ you, and you’d sound more depressed if it were Snape. That leaves very few options.”

“Of course you’ve thought this through,” Ron scoffed. “What’s down there, anyway?” 

Both of the girls shook their heads reluctantly. 

“Can’t tell,” Hermione said, her voice thin; Phoenix wondered whether or not she was afraid of waking Fluffy. “It’s way too dark down there.”

Harry and Ron stood over them, gazing down into the blackness. Phoenix listened to the soft, lilting notes of the harp as the music slowed.

“Nyx, do you know a spell to—”

“ _ Lumos _ ,” she whispered. The tip of her wand was now lit, but it was hardly enough. “ _ Lumos maxima, _ ” she tried again, and, this time, several small orbs of light sprouted from the wand tip and spiralled slowly down through the rectangular chamber. 

“Even with it,” Ron said, dazed, “you can’t see the floor all that well.”

“If it is a floor,” Harry supplied. “Someone has to jump first and I think it should be me. Nyx can go after and—”

“Actually,” she interjected, “I enchanted the harp, so it might stop playing once I jump...I won’t be able to concentrate too much on it while falling, I suspect,” she added with a sarcastic inflection, as if trying to save herself the humiliation of her fear of heights. “I’ll have to go last, or Fluffy might wake up and get whoever’s left after me.”

“Good thinking.” Ron’s voice shook slightly as he spoke, but he cleared his thoat and tried again, smooth and clear, “I’ll go after Harry, I guess.”

Harry took one final look around the room, then stared down through the trapdoor, and said, “If anything happens to me, don’t follow. Go straight to the owlery and send Hedwig to Dumbledore, right?”

The three friends nodded; Ron’s eyes were wide with fear and Hermione had her wand drawn, but refused to meet Harry’s gaze. He maneuvered himself through the opening, just barely holding onto the edge by his fingertips, breathed in deeply, and let go. 

For a moment, Ron, Hermione, and Phoenix all held their breath; he seemed to be falling forever. But after what must have been a few moments, Harry finally hit the floor with a muffled  _ thud _ and waved at them through what dim light Phoenix’s spell provided. He called for Ron to jump, then Hermione, until Phoenix was left all alone with the giant three-headed dog and a harp that could stop playing at any moment—she still wasn’t certain how she’d gotten it to play in the first place. 

Would the spell last long enough to see them through to the Stone and back? Would Fluffy try to attack them when they returned to bring the Stone to Dumbledore? 

She was stuck in her own anxious thoughts, waiting for the others to tell her it was alright to jump, when Hermione’s voice echoed through the chamber and up through the trapdoor, “DON’T JUMP, PHOENIX, IT’S NOT SAFE YET!”

“WHAT’S WRONG?”

But there was no answer; she could see the three of them struggling against the floor...were they all stuck with a permanent sticking charm? They seemed to be wiggling in their spots, wands raised, but aiming at nothing. 

“HAVE YOU GONE MAD?” Ron shouted. “ARE YOU A WITCH OR NOT?”

Phoenix sat on the edge of the trapdoor, placed her hands on the floorboards opposite, and let herself fall through. The fall, to her surprise, did not last nearly as long as she had expected, but she kept her eyes shut until her feet hit the ground. 

“Nyx, get out of there!”

Plantlike tendrils began to curl around her ankles and a strange, focused heat climbed its way up her leg. She opened her eyes; Hermione had conjured a jet of blue flame, which had set the floor alight and was now chasing the plant upward and around Phoenix’s body. 

“What are you doing? Move!” Harry shouted at her, but it was no use; the plant was trying to retract—to escape the fire—but the fire itself was continuing its path upward. 

Phoenix barely had enough time to raise her wand to redirect the flame; she picked up her feet, as if she were marching, and stomped across the retreating Devil’s Snare. There were scorch marks on her pants, where the flame had bitten through the fabric, and a few minor burns on her ankles, but she reached the stone corridor otherwise unharmed.

“That was close,” she panted, watching the last tendrils of Devil’s Snare twist and pull from the wall, where the three students before her had landed. With a wave of her wand, the blue flame died. “Could have ruined my Weasley sweater.”

“Sorry, Nyx,” Hermione apologized, wrapping her arms around the smaller girl’s shoulders. “I didn’t think you’d jump into it.”

“Didn’t see it until I reached the ground,” she laughed, relief barely masking the waver in her voice. “Good thinking with the Snare. Must be Sprout’s obstacle, yeah?”

The others shared a sideways glance and nodded slowly, as if they hadn’t considered  _ who _ had put the plant there, only that it would have killed them had Hermione not been present. 

“ _ There’s no wood, _ ” Ron scoffed, but Phoenix didn’t have the energy or concentration to ask what he meant by it. The only way out of the chamber was through a cold, stone passageway. With a fluid movement of her wand, the orbs that had surrounded the Devil’s Snare spiralled around the four students and into the darkness ahead. Water was trickling down the walls and Phoenix could see that the passageway was angled steadily downward. 

“I don’t like this,” she muttered, taking a few ginger steps forward.

“Only way to move on,” Harry reminded her. He stepped past Phoenix and followed the lights, which moved sluggishly now, creeping along the walls. 

They moved on: Harry led them, despite it being Phoenix’s magic that lit his way, and the others stood side-by-side. Hermione, to Phoenix’s surprise, was much more confident and prepared than she’d ever seen her. Perhaps the Muggle-born  _ was _ really less afraid of dying than being expelled. 

_ Now that _ , she thought,  _ wouldn’t surprise me. _

“Can you hear something?” Ron whispered. 

“Wings? Like tiny, paper wings,” Phoenix concluded. She slipped between Harry and Ron and dipped into the chamber before them, extinguishing her spell with a quiet  _ Nox. _ “There’s enough light in here,” she muttered, “and I’m not going to waste my energy on  _ Lumos Maxima _ when it could go to better purposes.”

She was talking to herself, it seemed; Hermione and Ron were staring, dumbfounded, at what must have been hundreds of tiny, colorful birds as they flit around the chamber. If Phoenix were to be honest, she would have to admit that she  _ was _ fooled at first—that those little things dodging in and out of sight, too fast for any one to catch her eye,  _ did _ look like birds. She didn’t question it until Harry, in all his Gryffindor glory, ran suddenly across to the opposite door, arms held above his head as if he expected those suspended creatures to attack. Hermione and Ron followed suit. 

“What are you doing?” she asked as they pulled repeatedly—uselessly—on the handle. 

Hermione pulled out her wand and tried to unlock the door using magic, but the thing still wouldn’t give.

“It won’t budge,” Ron whined.

“No, I mean, what are you doing running across like that?” Phoenix scoffed, crossing her arms. “You think Dumbledore left you three broomsticks for this challenge  _ just _ for them to sit in the corner, collecting dust?”

Beside the entrance, not five feet from where she stood, were three brooms leaning against the stone wall. To Phoenix, they were extraordinarily obvious, as if some sort of gravity had pulled her to them the moment she entered the chamber, but the others had clearly not taken notice. Perhaps the threat of the impending challenge was making them anxious—or perhaps they could feel time slipping as Voldemort came nearer and nearer to the Stone. Whatever the reason, they seemed unperturbed, but Phoenix had her doubts: if they couldn’t manage to find the tools laid out for them to finish the task, what were the odds they’d succeed?

“They’re not birds!” Harry shouted suddenly, taking them all by surprise. “They’re keys! Winged keys—look carefully.”

The three ran back toward the broomsticks—Phoenix wanted to roll her eyes, but resisted—and grabbed one each, planning to find the old, silver key that matched the door handle. 

“Here, Nyx,” Hermione offered, holding hers out for Phoenix to take. “You’re a better flyer than I am.”

“No, I’m not,” the smaller girl said. 

Hermione raised her eyebrows. 

“Fine,” Phoenix admitted. “Maybe I’m a bit more confident than you, but—”

“Get on the broom,” the Muggle-born laughed. Neither of the girls noticed that Harry and Ron had already kicked off from the ground. It was only when the keys began to swarm and attack the boys that Hermione or Phoenix broke their gaze.

“NYX!” Ron yelped.

She threw her leg over the broom instinctively and began to rise, a bit too quick for comfort, as the boys shot around the room; she nearly slipped off several times before finally catching up to the swarm.

“I don’t know how to get in!” Phoenix shouted, riding along the outskirts. 

From here, they looked like one giant, glittering cloud of brass and gold. The keys moved in near synchrony as they chased Harry and Ron, and she had a difficult time getting close enough to touch their wings, never mind make it all the way through to the boys. But they proved more capable than she’d thought; Harry shouted some orders to Ron, who pulled downward on his broomstick, matching Harry’s movements from below. Harry rose slightly above his target, which seemed to be debating which way to go, since it had been driven to the wall — with one boy just above and one just below it. Harry reached his right arm out and, in one smooth motion, swiped an ancient, silver key from the air.

He tossed it down to Hermione, who opened the door to the next chamber, and all three flyers suddenly found themselves racing the enchanted keys to the opening. First Harry, who was nearest, then Phoenix, and finally Ron swooped through, nearly hitting their heads on the door frame as they pulled suddenly up to avoid the oncoming sting of a thousand pieces of whirring metal. In their haste, they hadn’t noticed that nothing had been following them since Harry’s expert catch. 

“That was close,” Ron said when they’d all finally landed. “Thanks for the help, Nyx.” 

“I’m not sure whether that’s meant to be sarcasm or not,” she quipped, “but remind me to slap you later, once we’ve made it out of this mess alive.”

 

The room was too dark...it reminded Phoenix of a casket, somehow; something small and enclosed, hidden beneath the ground, from which she could not escape. Though she was certain the chamber must have been enormous, given the distant echo of their voices, she suddenly felt very, very claustrophobic.

“I don’t like this,” she muttered, refusing to take another step. She raised her want to cast  _ lumos _ again, but her friends  each began to walk into the darkness and the chamber was suddenly filled with light, momentarily blinding. “I still don’t like this.”

Oh, but Ron must have loved this, she thought. Giant chess pieces, taller than any of the students, loomed above the four. They were made of black stone, facing the opposite side of the chamber, where the white pieces sat immobile; their faces were all eerily blank. 

“There’s the door,” Hermione said, pointing beyond the opposing side. “Behind the king, you see it?”

Ron, Hermione, and Harry quickly resigned themselves to the obvious task ahead: they figured that, in order to get themselves across, they needed to play the game and  _ win _ . That required a skilled player like Ron, who was swiftly put in charge of strategy, and he designated a position for each of his friends. As he announced the pieces they would be playing as, the four monoliths that were in their spots turned—of their own will, it seemed—and moved to the edge of the board, where they stayed for the entirety of the match. 

But Phoenix was paying little attention to any of this —her mind only barely registered that anything had moved, or that Ron had chosen to make Hermione a castle and Harry a bishop.  She wasn’t very good at Wizard’s Chess and, even if she were, she didn’t care enough about the game to truly understand it like Ron did. She was off in her own mind, trying to piece together the mystery unraveling therein, when she heard her name called.

“Phoenix!” It was Ron; he seemed unsure of himself, but not angry, like his tone suggested. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” she lied, shaking her head. She had the strangest feeling that something was amiss, but she couldn’t quite figure out what. 

“Could you…could you be the pawn?” 

Phoenix made her way to the vacant space and gave him a reassuring smile, despite the knots forming in her stomach. Pawns, she was sure, were throw-aways—pieces you sacrifices early on in the game—and their opponents looked ready to destroy any chessman that made a wrong move. Would she be able to defend herself, or would that throw the whole match into disarray? 

As if to confirm her suspicions, the first piece to move was one of the white pawns. The silence in its movements was deafening. 

Each side made several moves before the first chessman was taken: the second black knight. He fell to the floor under the enormous strength of the white queen’s blow; the crack of stone smacking stone was worse than the silence, Phoenix thought, and she forced her eyes shut at the sound as the queen dragged the knight to the edge of the board. She returned to her place, blank face placid as always, but Phoenix could not bare to look at her any longer.

Ron seemed to really jump into action after that display. He took it upon himself to move around the board, capturing as many white pieces as possible, though none of his moves were quite so dramatic as those of the opposing side. The black chessman that had been taken were all left laying limp off the edge of the board, beside the knight, who still had yet to move. 

Harry and Hermione were very rarely moved, unless they were in danger, which happened several times. It must have been difficult for Ron to keep his attention on both winning the game  _ and _ protecting his friends, because the three found themselves shouting his name every now and again. 

“Move Hermione!” Harry said, and not a momoent too soon. Ron had almost finished giving one of the castles orders to move two spaces, in order to lure the white bishop out from behind a pair of pawns. 

“The other bishop is set up to take her, Ron!” Phoenix added. 

He looked down a moment at his own feet, redesigning his strategy. This happened more than once: the moment he thought he had finally come up with a sure way to win, he would realize that one of his friends was in danger of being bludgeoned and have to scrap the whole plan. 

Phoenix often found herself in the same position for three or four consecutive turns. When she was used, however, it was to take the larger players, like a bishop and both white knights. The only piece that neither she nor Ron seemed capable of getting near—save, of course, the king—was the queen, who moved strategically around the board, smashing pieces as she went.

“You wouldn’t happen to know how to get rid of her, would you?” Phoenix asked. She’d been standing still for far too long. “She’s always lined up with me.”

This was the fourth turn in a row that the queen had been in place to take Phoenix; why she hadn’t already was a mystery to the girl, but Ron obviously could see what game the piece was playing. Either that, or they had gotten extraordinarily lucky that the queen hadn’t taken her shot. 

“I know,” Ron said after a long while. “It won’t matter soon, anyway.”

“What do you mean?” Hermione asked. Phoenix could her the fear in her voice. “You’re not going to sacrifice yourself are you?”

“I have to. There’s no other way to win,” he sighed, turning to Harry to give his final instructions. “After I’m taken, you checkmate the king, got it? Then you, Hermione, and Phoenix go through to the nex—”

“We’re not leaving you!” Hermione shouted. She lifted her foot, as if to step out of her square, then thought better of it. “What if you get hurt?” 

Ron gave Phoenix a solemn look. 

She wanted to say that she’d take care of him—that she could make everything okay, and the four of them would walk out of this alive—but the queen was a tall, powerful stone monolith that had just smashed nearly half the players on their side of the board; their bodies still lay unconsciouss on the sidelines. Even  _ if _ Phoenix was able to staunch the blow, she doubted it’d do very much good. On top of it all, there was the chance that using magic to defend against the opposing chessmen would somehow be against the rules of the game and none of them would make it to the Stone. 

She nodded. “I’ll do my best.”

That seemed to be enough. Ron took forward once, then, with a slight hesitation in his step, two squares to the right. He was direclty in front of Phoenix now, between her and the giant queen, who took one swing at him with her arm, knocking him to the floor. Phoenix had the vague impression that Hermione screamed, but she could not really hear her; her own pulse was ringing in her ears. Ron had landed in a heap just in front of her, so close that she could see the faint rise and fall of his stomach as he breathed.

“He’s still alive,” was all she thought to say as the queen dragged him by his arm to the heap of unconscious chessmen. “He’s alive.”

For now, that was all that mattered. 

Harry took his turn, and the white king threw his crown at Harry’s feet. The white pieces moved so that the three Gryffindors had a clear path to the door and bowed as they passed through. 

“McGonagall,” Phoenix said. She looked down at Ron, then at the chessmen beside him, and finally to the queen. “There are seven obstacles, right? And we know that Hagrid was the one who put Fluffy on the third floor. Sprout must have done the Devil’s Snare, Flitwick charmed the keys, and McGonagall transfigured the chessmen to move and act as they did...Who else could have done it?”

“Come on, Nyx,” Harry said, reaching out for her hand. “We have to keep moving.”

It took a moment for her feet to begin to move.

“Dumbledore,” Hermione said once they’d made it into the hallway. 

“What?”

“Dumbledore could have transfigured them,” she explained. “He’s one of the greatest wizards of all time  _ and _ he used to be the Transfigurations professor before he became headmaster.”

“Yes, he  _ could _ have done it, but he didn’t,” Phoenix scoffed, forgetting she had never told Hermione about what had happened during Christmas break. “I’d be willing to bet that this is where he hid the Mirror of Erised—as one of the protections guarding the Stone.”

“What is that?” Hermione asked. 

Harry gave Phoenix a troubled look; it was clear he hadn’t thought of the Mirror since its disappearance...or not  _ enough _ , anyway. Not like Phoenix had. 

“What would he use it for?” Harry asked, stopping in his tracks. “To distract whoever is trying to get to the Stone?”

“What are you talking about, Harry?” Hermione stomped over to the chamber door and turned around, so that she was blocking their exit. She raised her eyebrows accusingly. “Nyx?”

“We don’t have time for this!” she nearly shouted, but Hermione just crossed her arms and waited. “Fine...I’ll explain later, but all you need to know  _ now _ is this: if you see a mirror, don’t look into it. Or, if you do, and you like what you see, have the good sense to look away.”

“Who wouldn’t?”

Harry and Phoenix shared a knowing look. 

“Never mind that,” he said, pushing past the Muggle-born. He opened the door and cringed. “That’s disgusting!”

He, Hermione, and Phoenix all pulled their robes up to cover their noses; a mountain troll, much larger than the one the boys had fought that Halloween, was laying on the floor with a bloody gash on its head. It must have been trapped down there for a long time, Phoenix thought, because the stench was unbearable. The students rushed to the opposite door.

“Any thoughts, Nyx?” Harry asked as he reached out for the handle. 

For all her theory, Phoenix remained silent.

 

The next chamber was smaller than the others; it was dark, with the slight, chilly impression of being underwater. Phoenix could see only a table, on top of which sat seven potion viles, and the open door on the other side. Nothing about this obstacle seeemed immediately intimidating.

“This is too easy,” she said, as she stepped into the room. The moment her back foot hit the floor, however, purple flames shot up from the ground, barring the exit behind them. A second later, black fire sprang up and filled the doorway across the chamber. They were stuck, with no way forward or back. “This is much more what I expected.”

The three students made their way to the table; beside the bottles was a piece of parchment that read:

 

_ Danger lies before you, while safety lies behind, _

_ Two of us will help you, whichever you will find, _

_ One among us seven will let you move ahead, _

_ Another one will transport the drinker back instead, _

 

This was straightforward...or so, Phoenix thought. The Mirror of Erised and the Stone were through the black flame, whereas a troll, already defeated, was in the previous chamber. One potion would bring the drinker to each of these obstacles. 

 

_ Two among our number hold only nettle wine, _

_ Three of us are killers, waiting hidden in line,  _

_ Choose, unless you wish to stay here forevermore,  _

_ To help you in your choice, we give you these clues four: _

_ First, however slyly the poison tries to hide,  _

_ You will always find some on nettle wine’s left side,  _

 

Harry began to stare at the bottles, as if imagining all the different possibilities for the first clue, but Hermione and Phoenix trudged on through the script, looking for some epiphany. All she knew, so far, was that nettle wine could not be the furthest bottle to the left.

 

_ Second, different are those that stand on either end,  _

_ But if you would move forward, neither is your friend,  _

_ Third, as you see clearly, all are different size, _

_ Neither dwarf nor giant holds death in their insides, _

_ Fourth, the second left and the second on the right, _

_ Are twins once you taste them, though different at first sight. _

 

“ _ Brilliant _ .” This was Hermione’s obstacle, it seemed. She was ecstatic. “This isn’t magic—it’s logic—a puzzle.”

“Just like the chess match, then?” Phoenix asked dryly. “Ron was quite clever back there.”

Both Harry and Hermione’s faces dropped; they began to read through the puzzle more thoroughly. 

Since the giant was the second to the right—and therefore, could not be poison—then it had to be nettlewine, as neither the potion to move forward or back had a twin. That made the furthest to the left and the third right poison, since it is always to nettle wine’s left side, and the last potion on the right had to be the one that moved someone backward, because it had to be different from whatever was at the opposite end. Since the dwarf could not be poison, that meant it could only be…

“It’s this one,” Hermione said, pointing at the smallest bottle. “This one will get us through to the next chamber and this one,” she pointed at the furthest right, “will bring someone back.”

“There’s only enough for one person, Harry,” Phoenix noted, handing him the dwarf. “But I have a theory. You take this and we’ll take care of the rest.”

“Don’t forget to take the brooms from the flying-key room,” he reminded her. “They’ll get you back into the third-floor corridor. Grab Ron and—

“Harry, we don’t have time for this. Go!”

He hesitated, but did as told, then walked through the black fire as if it were the warm flames of a Floo hearth. Hermione and Phoenix both took a small sip of their own potions.

“Are you alright?” 

“Yeah,” Hermione hissed. “It feels like ice.”

They made their way into the troll’s room—where it still lay, unmoving in a smelly heap—and hurried to the door. 

“Hermione, I need to tell you something,” she said quickly. “We don’t have much time. Go find Ron, fly him out of here. Get Dumbledore. If he’s not back yet, then find McGonagall.”

“Where are you going?” her voice shook. 

“Someone had already drank the same potion as Harry...they must have. It must have refilled itself, which means there’ll be enough for me when I go back in there.”

Hermione bit her lip. She seemed to understand that this was the best thing to do; Phoenix could help Harry, and Ron definitely needed some attention, otherwise he might...well, neither of them wanted to think about what could happen to him if we was left alone for much longer. A few seconds’ pause, but the Muggle-born nodded her head.

“And what do I tell McGonagall if I find her?”

Phoenix opened the door, somehow resisting the urge to screw her face up at the emergence of the awful stench.

“Tell her that we’re too late: Professor Quirrell has already made it to the Stone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys! Hope you enjoyed the chapter! Again, please feel free to comment and chat me. 
> 
> You should also know that I have begun posting these chapters/fanfics to kanenerose.tumblr.com, so you can find Sorcerer's Stone and Spruce and Dogwood. So far, I only have a few chapters posted, but I will begin updating more often.
> 
> ♥ Kanene
> 
> Quotes from the original: 
> 
> “You have slain something so pure and defenseless to save yourself, and you will have but a half-life, a cursed life, from the moment the blood touches your lips...Can you think of nobody who has waited many years to return to power, who has clung to life, awaiting their chance?” page 207.  
> “He wanted ter be sure I could handle a it, he didn’ want it going ter any old home...So I told him, after Fluffy, a dragon would be easy.” and “Well, Fluffy’s a piece o’ cake if yeh know how ter calm him down, jus’ play him a bit o’ music an’ he’ll go straight off ter sleep.” page 212.  
> “No, no, no...No, we’re not. Why don’t you go to bed, Neville?” page 217.  
> “If anything happens to me, don’t follow. Go straight to the owlery and send Hedwig to Dumbledore, right?” page 221.  
> “HAVE YOU GONE MAD?...ARE YOU A WITCH OR NOT?” page 223.  
> “‘Can you hear something?’ Ron whispered.” page 223.  
> The Potions Puzzle and “Brilliant...This isn’t magic—it’s logic—a puzzle.” page 285.


	17. The Man with Two Faces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is it: the final chapter!
> 
> This is sort of a Christmas/holiday present for every one of my readers, who have been wonderful and so kind over the past couple of months. 
> 
> Thank you so much  
> ♥ Kanene

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who are sticking with this story, The Chamber of Secrets will be starting up very soon! Please do subscribe to the series, or check for the individual story, because I do expect something to be up within the next week or so.

The black fire felt like  _ nothing _ —there was no heat, no chill, no sensation at she trudged through the passageway—but seemed to extend on forever. Just as she began to fear that the potion would wear off, leaving her unprotected in a sea of flame, she stepped through to the room beyond. 

Phoenix recognized it immediately; it was the same stone chamber she’d seen in her dreams, where Sirius Black, the infamous murderer, had asked her time and time again to go searching for him. This was where he had been leading to.  _ This _ was why. In the center of the room, the Mirror of Erised sat, seemingly unaffected.

“Ah,” Quirrell said. He stopped his pacing the moment he saw Phoenix and stood still, just off-center of the Mirror. “I was wondering how long it would take you to find your way here.”

“I see you’ve lost your stutter,” Phoenix quipped. There was very little she could think of to say that would buy her time; Harry, bound by ropes, was struggling to keep his balance not ten feet from the entrance. 

“It’s him!” the boys yelled. “He’s the one who tried to kill me at the Quidditch match!” 

Phoenix said nothing. Until she knew where the Sorcerer’s Stone was hidden, there was no point in starting a fight. Having been one of the professors who designed the protections, Quirrell may have some information she and Harry lacked that would lead them to the Stone. Either way, she wasn’t entirely certain she could beat him in a duel. 

“Foolish boy,” he laughed. “She already knows.”

Harry turned as best he could to face Phoenix. 

“She saw me after that insufferable Miss Granger knocked me down. My concentration was broken, but Miss Skimple saw me start the incantation again,” he continued, his voice smoother than she’d ever heard it. “You even tried to warn them, didn’t you, Miss Skimple?”

Harry’s face fell. She  _ had _ tried to warn them, and they’d accused her of supporting a would-be murderer. But Phoenix didn’t want to look at him—she had a plan, and a bad feeling that Harry wouldn’t catch on. 

“I’ve known you were after the Stone since then,” she smirked. “You knew it was in Dumbledore’s vault in Gringotts, so you tried to steal it while Diagon Alley was crowded with students and their families. When it was missing, you knew it had to have been moved to Hogwarts; you volunteered to help protect it.”

“I take no credit for that,” Quirrell admitted, lowering his head ever so slightly. “Dumbledore asked me to play my part in guarding the Stone...It was merely coincidence.”

“And he didn’t think anything of it when a mountain troll somehow got into the castle on Halloween? Not unlike the one in the chamber back there.” Phoenix took a few tentative steps forward. She was trying to distract him, sure, and putting him on the defense would most likely get him thinking more thoroughly about her plan, but she still needed to keep him away from Harry. Whether or not Quirrell found what he was looking for in the Mirror, everyone knew that the Boy-Who-Lived was what would bring Voldemort down in the end. “Snape obviously did.”

“Ah, yes,” he hissed. “Severus was on to me by then.”

“You weren’t the only one disappointed when he came back in one piece.” 

Harry, who had been struggling against his binds, suddenly fell to the floor. Quirrell paid him no mind; there was a glint in his eye, not unlike the one she had witnessed during the Quidditch match. 

“It must have stung,” he said, “knowing that none of your friends believed you,  _ brilliant  _ as you are.”

He turned on his heels, never leaving the Mirror, as she slowly made her way toward the corner of the chamber.

“It didn’t help when you used the Imperius Curse on me,” she hissed. “ _ That’s _ why I went to the out-of-bounds corridor. That’s why I forgot what happened that night—and why I followed you in the Forbidden Forest. At that point,  _ no one _ believed me. 

“The Imperius Curse is Unforgivable,” she added, raising her wand. “They’ll have you sent to Azkaban...if you survive to make it there, that is.”

“ _ If _ I survive,” he laughed. “My master has been most impressed with your talent and cleverness these past few months.”

“Am I supposed to be flattered?” 

He didn’t seem perturbed. Instead, he turned to the Mirror and looked fondly at his reflection. 

“My master told me long ago, Miss Skimple: there is no good and evil, there is only power, and those too weak to seek it,” he said, placing his hands behind his back. Phoenix wondered where he’d stashed his wand. “Dumbledore would fill your head with silly notions of goodness and bravery, but where has it gotten him? Even he couldn’t see what  _ you _ see. 

“And yet,” he added, “you idolize him, and he gives you no credit for your own intelligence. Did he believe you the night you snuck into the forbidden corridor on my command?”

“N—no,” Phoenix stuttered. She looked toward the ground and forced her breathing, hoping to make it look irregular; she’d never been good with acting helpless.

“Lord Voldemort sees your potential,” he said calmly. “With your intelligence, you  _ must _ have figured out by now what Dumbledore did with the Mirror.”

Phoenix nodded. 

“Nyx, don’t tell him!” Harry shouted, struggling to stand. “He’s just going to use you to get to the Stone.”

“Are you going to let him underestimate you again?”

“I-I’ve seen it before,” she admitted, making her way to his side. “It shows you your greatest desire, and  _ only  _ your greatest desire. Dumbledore hopes that thieves will look into the Mirror and become distracted by what they see.”

“And what do you see?”

With a few final steps, Phoenix closed the distance between them. She was close enough to him now that she could smell the strange stench coming from his turban. 

She understood his strategy; Quirrell was trying to make her feel special, so that she’d want to change sides. It wasn’t going to work, but so long as it kept Quirrell from making any  _ real _ progress, she figured it was worth seeing Harry look so betrayed, though it broke her heart. Phoenix turned toward the Mirror.

Her reflection had changed. 

“Do you see the Sorcerer’s Stone?” he asked; the grin remained. 

“No. I see—I see Sirius Black,” she said, placing her wand slowly by her side. “He’s smiling at me. He—he’s free from prison. He’s in this exact chamber, standing right where the Mirror is.”

“What else is there?” 

Phoenix shook her head. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

“ _ Lies!”  _ Quirrell shouted, reaching forward to grasp her arm. Phoenix barely had enough time to raise her wand before he’d twisted her left arm behind her back so that she was forced to face her reflection. “Tell me what you see!”

That was when she heard it: a muffled voice, coming from beneath the professor’s turban. 

“Let me see her,” it hissed. 

Quirrell instantly let go, looking as confused and nervous as she’d ever seen him. Suddenly, Phoenix understood—the weird smell coming from his turban, the obvious lies he’d spread about how he’d gotten it, the voice she’d heard that night in the Forbidden Forest. Voldemort wasn’t hiding somewhere out of sight on the Hogwarts grounds, he had been in the castle this whole time, giving direct instructions to his faithful follower. 

“M-master? Are you certain?” Quirrell asked warily. His hands shook.

Phoenix, meanwhile, had become more defensive. She took several long strides backward, keeping her wand aimed at his chest, and chanced a glance at Harry, who was still squirming on the floor. Quirrell looked so distressed...perhaps the two of them could overpower him, even if Voldemort was somewhere nearby. 

“Let me see her,” the voice insisted. 

Quirrell shivered, but did as told; he turned away so that the back of his head was facing Phoenix and began to unravel his turban. With every bit he undid, the unavoidable stench grew. It was almost as terrible—though not nearly as strong—as the troll laying unconscious two doors back. 

Phoenix wasn’t exactly sure what she  _ expected _ to see. She knew that Voldemort had been hiding in Quirrell’s turban  _ somehow _ , but she didn’t think he would literally be living on the back of his head, as simply a face. 

And what a face, she thought: only a mouth, slitted nostrils, and glowing red eyes, not unlike that of a snake. The skin there was unnaturally pale, as if it had never seen the sun, and Phoenix, for all her fears, had a hard time looking away. Three things entered her mind almost simultaneously: the first was that she was not prepared to duel Voldemort, whether or not he was just a shadow of his former being; the second was the realization that Harry was still tied up in the room, and in danger of this new development; lastly, she remembered that Harry Potter was only eleven years old and, even if he  _ was _ the Boy-Who-Lived, that didn’t mean he was supposed to—or able to—take on the world’s most dangerous wizard all by himself. 

“I know your desire,” he hissed, eye pinning Phoenix to her spot. “Do you understand it, Asteria?”

She cringed at the use of her own name; from his lips, it sounded like poison. 

“Dumbledore says that…” her voice wavered, “I want to—that I want to see the good in all men.”

“And you believe what he tells you?” he laughed. “Why would he tell you the truth about your family, when he was the one who took you from them?”

Phoenix lowered her wand. 

“You’re lying,” she muttered, but it wasn’t very convincing. 

“You want to know who you are.  _ That _ is what you see: the missing piece of a riddle you didn’t know existed. 

“I could help you,” he smiled, stretching the sallow skin grotesquely, “raise you to your rightful place in the world I shall build. When I am restored to my full glory, you shall join me as one of my faithful followers. You will have your family again.”

Phoenix swallowed hard. Her mouth had gone dry and her knuckles were turning white, she had gripped her wand so tightly. 

“But first,” he continued, “you must give me that Stone in your pocket.”

Phoenix had no time to ponder how he knew or noticed. He was standing right before her—the pressure to act was too great in the moment. She threw her left hand onto the lump in her back pocket and began to back away, keeping her wand aimed in between his eyes. Quirrell began to walk backward so that Voldemort came nearer and nearer—it was a relatively slow progression, but it scared Phoenix nonetheless.

“If you want the Stone, you’ll have to kill me,” she said. Her voice was much smoother than she’d expected, but it suited her needs. 

Voldemort scoffed.

“Such a shame,” he said. “ _ Seize her. _ ” 

“ _ Diffindo!”  _ she shouted as Quirrell was turning to chase after her. 

The ropes that bound Harry were suddenly severed. She turned back to Quirrell, whose face was twisted in rage, aimed at his center, and shouted,  _ “Stupefy!” _

The professor fell backward; she could hear Voldemort’s distinct voice hiss in displeasure when his face came in contact with the stone floor. She cast her spell again and again and again (without opening her mouth, she’d later realize) until the professor was able to aim his wand. Phoenix threw herself quickly behind the Mirror. Once, then again, she felt it shake as her opponent’s curses bounced off the frame, but nothing seemed capable of breaking through. 

It did not dawn on her that Harry was still vulnerable in the middle of the chamber until it was almost too late. Quirrell seized on his opportunity and charged at the Boy-Who-Lived, reaching his hands around his throat. Phoenix raised her wand once more and was ready to cast another spell when she heard it: the scream. But it wasn’t coming from Harry. 

_ Quirrell _ was screaming. 

“SEIZE HIM!” Voldemort shouted as his follower paused, but there was little the professor could do; he latched back onto Harry’s neck and retracted, once again, when the pain proved too much for him. The boy realized his own inexplicable power and grabbed Quirrell’s face, causing the man to hiss and try to pull away in pain. His skin was beginning to blister wherever Harry touched, but his master kept shouting, “KILL HIM! KILL HIM!” despite it all. 

Phoenix doubted she had the ability to use an Unforgivable Curse on anyone—even someone so despicable as Voldemort—never mind the moral constitution. She looked down at the scene as if from a great distance, watching as life drained from both sides of the fight, then realized that she had stayed passive for far too long. Well, if she didn’t want to hurt Harry on accident, and as long as he was going to somehow cause damage to Quirrell/Voldemort  _ anyway _ , then there was no harm in...

“ _ Petrificus Totalus, _ ” she shouted. 

The professor and the inhuman face both froze, but Harry was in too much pain to realize that they’d stopped moving; Phoenix ran to where they lay and kicked them over. 

They fell to the stone floor with a satisfying  _ thud _ . 

“Harry, are you alright?” she asked, kneeling beside him. 

He didn’t answer. His green eyes, normally so vibrant, were dull and motionless. 

“Harry!” she screamed. Phoenix reached into her pocket, grabbed the blood red stone, shoved it into his hand, and closed his fingers around it. Was it how it was rumoured to work? No. But it was the best she could do under the circumstance. She was trying to come up with some way to get them back through the black fire towards the potions puzle when Dumbledore stepped through.

And, suddenly, Phoenix knew that  it was over. The screaming, the struggling, the stench of burning skin...all of it. Silence filled the chamber like an eerie premonition. 

Dumbledore said nothing. Or, at least, Phoenix would not remember if he did. The world was suddenly at peace—as if his presence was enough to ensure that everything would be alright, despite any evidence to the contrary. Her mind felt blank in the most comforting way. The next day, she would only vaguely remember how the headmaster had glanced the boy over, checking for any obvious distress, and how he Apparated the three of them to the hospital wing. 

 

*              A              *              S              *              B              *

 

“Nyx?” 

She heard it through her dreams and opened her eyes slowly. The mid-morning light was dull, but still too much for her; she squinted.

“Nyx, it’s just  me,” Marinia whispered. “Take it slow.”

“Marinia?” Phoenix croaked. She didn’t know quite  _ why _ she wanted to cry so badly, but she could feel the tears beginning to build in the corners of her eyes. “I—I’m so sorry.”

“Whoa, shush,” the older girl whispered. She leaned over her sister and gave her shoulders a gentle squeeze. She did not retract, but stayed with her head just above Phoenix’s left shoulder, breathing softly and slowly. “You’re okay. You’re not in trouble. Dumbledore said you’d done something wonderful, even.”

Phoenix could feel her sister’s smile. She opened her eyes this time, letting a few tears fall. 

“I had a terrible dream,” she admitted, her voice choked. “I didn’t get to him in time. He got Harry and then you...and Jasper, too. He got everybody.”

She sniffed, but Marinia held on tighter. 

“But everything is alright now,” she cooed. She had no idea what had happened—save the fact that Harry and Ron had both been with Phoenix, and they were both in the hopsital wing because of it—but she was not going to pressure Phoenix into saying anything yet. The younger girl needed time to heal. “Harry and Ron are both fine. They’re here...you can see Ron, he’s right there, and Harry’s behind those curtains.”

“I’m so tired.”

“Then go back to sleep,” Marinia said, kissing her on the cheek. “Jasper or I will be here when you wake up.”

 

It was nearly dinnertime when she next awoke. She quickly found that she had visitors: both Fred and George had come by to drop off some gifts for the three Gryffindors (a toilet seat for Harry, which Madam Pomfrey had swiftly confiscated, and a small bag of Dungbombs disguised as one of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans for her, which were sitting on the nightstand); Alexandria was in the chair on her right side with Marinia sitting on the bed; Jasper sat on the left with one of the Chasers for Ravenclaw; and Professors Flitwick, Sprout, and McGonagall were standing in the center of the room, glancing now and again when they thought no one was looking. 

“Rise and shine,” said George. 

“Day’s almost done—” Fred continued. 

“—and you’ve only just woken up.”

“Shame, that.”

They smiled down at her from the end of the bed. Phoenix was grateful they had decided to come when they did; the rest of her visitors looked relieved and happy that she seemed alright, but none of them, apparently, knew what to say. They simply sat there in silence, watching the twins and her interact. At some point over the course of the next hour, everyone but the Chaser had reached forward and latched on to whatever part of her they could get. Jasper and Alexandria kept both of her hands in theirs, while Marinia laid her head on the younger girl’s stomach for some time. Even the twins had a hard time keeping their hands off of her; they each patted her leg repeatedly, like they would thump someone on the back, between jokes. 

By the time the dinner bell sounded, the professors had all gone.

“Can I bring her something to eat?” Marinia asked the head nurse sheepishly.

“No,” Pomfrey insisted, shooing the students away. “You all get your dinners and let Miss Skimple get some rest. When she’s ready for dinner, she’ll have it.”

“Are Harry and Ron going to be okay?” she asked after everyone else had left. Phoenix knew that, if their injuries were too serious, they’d be taken to St. Mungo’s Hospital, rather than be left here in the school ward. But she wanted more answers, and this felt like the place to start.  

“Don’t worry about them,” Madam Pomfrey said, bringing over a large platter of food. “They’ll be fine and awake in no time. A few days at the most.”

“Alright,” Phoenix sighed. 

The nurse hurried off to the opposite corner of the hospital wing. Phoenix ate what she could stomach and turned over, hoping to drown out some of the light and sound around her. After an hour or so of laying hopelessly awake, she slipped once more onto her back.

“Hello, Miss Skimple.”

It was McGonagall.

“Oh, um—I-I didn’t hear you come in,” she stuttered. 

“Poppy has given me permission to speak with you for a few minutes,” she explained, taking Alexandria’s chair. “You’ve been asleep since dinner.”

“I thought...What time is it?”

“Nearly curfew,” she deputy headmistress smiled. “You were turning in your sleep, I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“No,” Phoenix insisted. She sat up with a little groan; there was a soreness in her legs she hadn’t noticed before. “It’s fine. I just thought that I’d been awake.”

“It looks like you have some admirers. Fizzing Whizzbees, Chocolate Frogs, some Drooble’s chewing gum, and...I’m not entirely sure what these are,” she said, leaning curiously toward the Dungbombs the twins had disguised as Bertie Bott’s beans. “You should tell Mister Weasley—whichever one procured these for you—that Madam Pomfrey will be most displeased when she discovers what is hidden in this bag.”

The corners of her thin lips twisted into a sincere smile. 

“They mean well,” Phoenix laughed. She wasn’t tired any longer, but she was, inexplicably, hungry. 

“Would you like something?” 

“No, I’m alright,” she said, eyeing a Chocolate Frog. “Did people leave things for Harry and Ron?”

“Naturally, word has spread about the events that took place last night. Both Mister Potter and Mister Weasley have been given their due attention.” She sounded proud. 

“Does…” Phoenix breathed. “Has Professor Dumbledore come...to visit the hopsital wing, I mean?”

McGonagall nodded toward the curtains, behind which Harry had been ‘hidden.’ 

“He just came to see you three,” she admitted. The spectacles balanced on the bridge of her nose cast an awkward, rectangular shadow on either cheek. “You are free to leave whenever you feel ready, Miss Skimple, Poppy has already told me that you were only here to get some much-needed rest. I believe your classmates have been waiting for some time in the common room to see if you’d return tonight.

“You seem to have made some very good friends.”

“I think so,” Phoenix smiled. “Wait, do my parents know about what happened?”

“We have sent a letter to each of your guardians—save Mister Potter, of course—to inform them that you were in the hospital wing,” she sighed. “The Weasley family arrived this morning, and again sometime this afternoon, I was told.”

The professor’s smile faultered. She leaned toward Phoenix with a mischeivious look in her eye. 

“The good news is—and I am telling you this in confidence, Asteria, so you may not go spreading this around—that the four of you have each passed your exams, more or less with flying colors.”

“More or less?” Phoenix chuckled. She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear and suddenly became self-conscious. She hadn’t washed, or even brushed her hair or teeth, since the day before. But when she ran a hand quickly through her hair, there was no resistence; perhaps someone had come and done it for her. Her breath didn’t seem too harsh either. She relaxed. 

“You and Miss Granger received, at the least, full marks on every exam,” she breathed, looking around to be sure no one was eavesdropping, “and the boys…”

Her voice trailed off.

“Well, they passed,” Phoenix smiled. “That’s all that really matters.”

“Until O.W.L.s.” 

“Of course,” she laughed. 

 

*              A              *              S              *              B              *

 

Phoenix returned to Gryffindor Tower the next morning before breakfast. She slunk into her bed before anyone had the chance to realize she’d come back and closed the curtains of her four-poster shut. Hermione, in the next bed, was the first to notice.

“Oh, Nyx, you’re alright!” she squealed, wrapping her arms tight around the smaller girl’s shoulders. “I’m so sorry I missed you yesterday. Your sister said you woke up while I was talking with Hagrid. She said that everyone had been there but me. Oh, I felt terr—”

“Hermione,” Parvati moaned. “It’s not even seven o’clock. Could you keep it down a bit?”

“Sorry, Parvati.”

“I’m glad your alright, Nyx,” she sighed as she turned underneath her blankets. 

“Yeah, we were really worried about you,” Lavender added with a yawn. “We stayed up waiting to see if you’d come back last night.”

“Thanks, lot,” Phoenix breathed. 

Hermione held on tighter.

“It’s almost breakfast,” she whispered, “but if you don’t want to go down there right now, I’m sure the twins could sneak something from the kitchens for you.  _ Everyone  _ wants to hear what happened with you and Harry.”

Hermione was right, of course; when Phoenix entered the Great Hall, the entire room began to buzz with an unnatural energy that she’d only ever experienced once, the day she’d decided to sit at the Slytherin table. People were coming up to say hello, just hoping to get any scrap of information they could from her. But she said nothing. It was not really her story to tell, she assumed. Harry would say whatever he wanted to, and leave out the parts he didn’t want to be known; Voldemort had tried to kill  _ him _ , not her, so it was only fair that he had all the glory of the tale. Besides, she really wouldn’t do the narrative justice. 

“You passed, by the way,” Phoenix said offhandedly as she piled eggs and sausage onto Hermione’s plate. “McGonagall told me so herself, but I’m not supposed to say anything, so keep it hush.”

The Muggle-born breathed a sigh of relief. 

“Thank goodness,” she said. “I knew I passed Charms, but I wasn’t so sure about Transfiguration.”

“No, I meant  _ all _ of your classes, not just McGonagall’s.” A pause. “You’re brilliant, ’Mione.”

She felt the taller girl squeeze her elbow. 

Ron arrived halfway through breakfast and stuffed his face with as much food as he could get his hands on; he was positively starving, he said, though Phoenix couldn’t fathom  _ why _ . She’d seen Madam Pomfrey give him a platter—frankly, in her opinion, piled a bit  _ too _ high—that morning before she left for the Tower, and there was no doubt in her mind that he’d scoffed down the entire thing. 

“When did you wake up?” she asked. “I’m just curious.”

“Just this morning,” he said. “Hermione somehow got me up and we rode back to the third floor together, but after that, I sort of konked out.”

Well, that explained it, she thought. He hadn’t eaten in nearly two days. 

“Did you guys find the Stone?” he finally asked after finishing his first plate. 

Hermione rolled her eyes.

“Of  _ course _ they did,” she scoffed. 

Ron gave her a wicked sideways glance. 

Just to break the tension, Phoenix dragged the two of them through the Entrance Hall and out into the castle grounds. The seats in the Quidditch stadium were a bit chilly, but they made themselves comfortable in the stands, away from prying eyes. There, Phoenix explained about the troll and her theories on Quirrell, the potions riddle— _ ”Hermione was marvelous. She figured it out so quickly” _ —and the Mirror of Erised. Finally, she explained how Voldemort had used the unicorn blood to keep himself alive on the back of Quirrell’s head. 

“He’d been there the entire time, and no one knew?” His mouth formed a wide O. “How’d Harry get past him?”

“I really can’t say.” 

Ron was upset initially, but he understood Phoenix’s reasoning. They stayed up in the stands for some time, watching the clouds and talking about nothing—exams, marks, Houses, it all seemed to  _ small _ now. They had been a part of something much grander, if only for a few hours, and the world had been moving so slowly since. 

“I’m going inside. It’s nearly lunch.”

For the next day and a half, Ron seemed all too eager for Harry to wake up; not only was he excited that his friend had made it out of Voldemort’s clutches, but he wanted more than anything to know  _ how _ . Since Phoenix couldn’t satisfy him with an answer, he used every excuse he could find to visit the hospital wing, though Harry still showed no signs of waking up. 

The pile of candy on his nightstand kept growing. 

 

*              A              *              S              *              B              *

 

_ Dear Asteria,  _

 

_ We’ve received a letter from none other than Deputy Headmistress McGonagall about some run-in with a thief on the castle grounds. I wouldn’t say she was vague in her summation, but your mother and I do have some questionis and we’d like them answered before you come home.  _

 

_ The first is simple: Why were you out of bed in the first place? I know that you did a great thing, darling, but you should have been in your dormtitory. (I am not mad, I am simply curious, though I certainly cannot speak for your mother.) _

 

_ Secondly, how bad are your injuries? McGonagall had mentioned that you were in the hospital wing and that you were, in her words, ‘not at all severely harmed, but advised to stay on bedrest until our head nurse believes (you have) recovered.’ Marinia has sent us word to tell us that you are awake and that you seem alright, but I want to hear what you have to say.  _

 

_ Lastly, what happened? Again, we were given specifics from your professor, but she seemed to want to say very little. All that we know is that someone had crept onto the grounds and you, alongside some of your friends, had stopped them. ‘There is no longer any threat on the premisis.’  _

 

_ Sincerely, _

_ Your Father  _

 

Phoenix could not believe them. She helps save the entire wizarding world from Lord Voldemort and what do they do? Ask her why she was out of bed. She could tell that her mother had played some part in the writing, as well, or else he would have been a bit less strict or formal in his writing, but Phoenix was still appalled. And rightfully so. Even though he asked about her health, it seemed almost like an afterthought. 

She didn’t show the letter to Hermione or Ron; she was too mad to face either of them. Instead, she hurried to the library, grabbed a quill and some parchment, and began scribbling her response furiously. 

 

_ Dear Father, _

 

_ There is no way for me to convey my disappointment in your last letter. Don’t you know me better than to think I would simply be out of bed? Don’t you understand how important my time here at Hogwarts is, both to me and to my friends? Is the fact that I am alive and safe not enough for you...You need me to respond, through owl post, two days before I arrive home?  _

 

_ I also happen to know that you were invited to come to the school to visit me while I was in the hospital wing. Do you know who was there? The Weasley family—the twins, Percy, and both Molly  _ _ and _ _ Arthur—Marinia and Jasper,  _ _ their _ _ friends, nearly all of my professors, and most of Gryffindor House.  _

 

_ Lastly, I stopped a very dangerous wizard from stealing a very dangerous artifact that was hidden underneath the castle. I wasn’t able to beat him in a duel completely, but Harry and I were able to successfully keep him from doing any damage to anyone else.  _

 

_ Yours truly,  _

_ Phoenix B. Skimple  _

 

When she was finished, she read through the letter, slid it into her book bag, and grabbed out another piece of parchment. 

 

_ Hi, Dad, _

 

_ I’m fine. I knew that someone was trying to break into the school, but none of my professors believed me. There was a really powerful stone being hidden underneath the castle and Harry, Ron, Hermione and I were able to stop them from getting to it. Ron got hit in the head and passed out, Hermione brought him to the hospital wing, and Harry and I dueled the thief. That was all.  _

 

_ I’ll be home in a few days. Can’t wait to see you again! _

 

_ Love, _

_ Nyx _

 

*              A              *              S              *              B              *

 

Madam Pomfrey didn’t let Harry leave the hospital wing until it was time for the end-of-year feast. The Great Hall was decked with Slytherin green and silver and a large banner with a snake on it hung behind the High Table. The room fell silent as Harry entered, then suddenly picked up again. He took a seat between Ron and Phoenix as Dumbledore stood to begin his speech. 

The headmaster was going to award the House Cup...and, if the decorations were any indication, the Gryffindors really did not have much to look forward to. 

Phoenix scanned the professors at their table: Snape looked as smug as she’d ever seen him, Sprout and Flitwick, the Heads of House for Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw, were doing their best to keep from physically sulking or rolling their eyes at the Slytherins’ sudden shouts and bangs. Even McGonagall, who always kept a good poker face, looked as if she were ready to stand and leave the Great Hall; her thin-lipped frown had blanched. 

Finally, her eyes rested on Dumbledore, who winked. 

“Ahem,” he said. “I have a few last-minute points to dish out. Let me see. Yes…”

Phoenix smacked Harry on the arm out of her excitement. 

“Harry,” she whispered. “You do realize what’s going on, right?” 

“First,” Dumbledore continued, his voice booming through the tense silence that had filled the hall, “to Mr. Ronald Weasley; for the best-played game of chess Hogwarts has seen in years, I award Gryffindor House twenty points.”

The entire table burst into applause and Phoenix could hear Percy bragging about his little brother’s accomplishment. 

“Second—to Miss Hermione Granger.” 

Hermione made a noise that Phoenix could only categorize as a  _ squeak _ . 

“For the use of cool logic in the face of fire, I award Gryffindor House twenty points.”

The Muggle-born hid her face in her hands and turned toward the table. 

“Oh, no you don’t,” Phoenix chuckled, placing a hand on the other girl’s shoulder.. “You did a good job and you’re gonna take the credit for it. Now, come on.”

Hermione moved her arm slightly, revealing one very red, very wet eye. Phoenix understood; she wasn’t going to push the Muggle-born into showing her face when she was crying. She simply patted her on the back and listened as Dumbledore announced the next lot of points. 

“Third—to Mr. Harry Potter; for pure nerve and outstanding courage, I award Gryffindor House twenty-five points.”

By now, the Great Hall had become so loud with students’ cheers that they couldn’t hear one another over the din. The headmaster waited for silence, then began speaking once again. 

“There are all kinds of courage,” he said, sweeping his gaze over the tables. He began some speech about the different types of bravery when Hermione nudged her arm and whispered, “He’s talking about you, you know? Who else could he—”

But she was cut off by thunderous applause, preceded by ‘Mr. Neville Longbottom’, not ‘Miss Asteria Skimple.’ She didn’t mind; they were only trailing Slytherin house by fifteen points, which was quite the turn-around, considering the amount she had lost them by sneaking into the out-of-bounds corridor. Even if they didn’t win the House Cup, she was still happy to see the panic on the Slytherin students’ faces each time points were awarded. 

“Lastly,” Dumbledore said. Silence reigned instantly. “For seeing the best in the worst of men—and to compensate for those unjustly taken—I award twenty-five points to Miss Asteria Skimple.”

The decorations around the hall suddenly changed from green and silver to scarlet and gold. It was official: after six years, Gryffindor finally beat Slytherin for the House Cup. The sound in the room was deafening. Even Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs were celebratinig their victory, shouting and cheering at the top of their lungs. There was some debate over what Phoenix’s twenty-five points were really for, but it made no difference.  _ Gryffindor won. _

 

*              A              *              S              *              B              *

 

The train ride home was long and obnoxious. People wouldn’t leave their car alone. Every five minutes, it seemed, someone would come up with some excuse to visit the Boy-Who-Lived and his friends, to ask them questions about what happened or to congratulate them on their defeat of Slytherin. Harry was the least perturbed...until, that is, the Ravenclaw Keeper mentioned how terribly sorry he was that Gryffindor wasn’t able to win the Quidditch Cup, what with their Seeker being in the hospital wing and all. That was when the door was shut tight and Hedwig’s cage was placed in front, to keep people from inviting themselves in. 

“The nerve,” Phoenix scoffed. She flipped her hair dramatically and leaned further into her seat. “Can you  _ believe _ him?”

Harry didn’t catch the sarcasm dripping from her voice. 

“What was that all about, though, Nyx?” Hermione said out of the blue. “The whole ‘best in the worst of men’ thing Dumbledore said at the feast.”

“Oh.” Phoenix blanched. After everything that happened, she still hadn’t discussed the Mirror in detail with Hermione. Or, more, she hadn’t discussed Sirius Black. She bit her lip and tried to shrug the Muggle-born off of her. 

Hermione only snuggled imperceptibly closer. 

“Well,” she began, “it’s to do with the Mirror. When I first looked in during Christmas break, I saw someone...he—he looked rather familiar, almost like family. I didn’t quite understand it, and that quote—the thing that he said when he awarded me those points—that was Dumbledore’s response to me then. I see the good qualities in people who are otherwise…” 

Her voice trailed off, but Hermione understood. 

“Hold on,” Ron blurted out, “I thought you didn’t get to see the Mirror when Harry first found it.”

Phoenix paled.

“I’m sorry,” she said, shaking her head. “I found it the day before he did, I just didn’t know what to say. Everything about it was so confusing and I thought I could figure it out before showing you guys.”

“Is that what you saw the night you found the Stone?” Harry asked. “Dumbledore said you could only get it if you wanted to find it, but not use it...But you told Quirrell that you saw someone in the Mirror instead.”

“I wasn’t lying,” Phoenix tried to explain. She was grateful that Harry had forgotten Black’s name, because she doubted that Ron had never heard of him. “He was there in the Mirror, and there was nothing else with him, but he pretended to put his hand in his back pocket and made a show of how it was a secret. I could feel the weight of the Stone in my pocket...by then, I just  _ knew. _ ”

 

Over the next few hours, they discussed Quidditch and owls and future exams and classes and Chocolate Frogs—everything they could think of and more, and  _ still _ the train ride stretched on longer than they seemed capable of talking. In the end, they sat in each other’s company, content with the quiet. 

“You’ll write, won’t you?” Phoenix asked them all as they grabbed their bags. The train had come to a stop and a wizard was letting students run through the barrier in groups of two and three. “I can’t imagine spending two whole months without you.”

Harry helped to get their things onto different carts; Hermione would hand something from the car to Phoenix, who’d hand it to Ron at the train door, who’d hand it down to Harry on the platform. 

“Well,” Ron said. “You’re all welcome to come and stay a bit at our house. There’s not a lot of room, but my parents would love to meet you.”

With the last few things on the carts, and their feet firmly on the platform, the four Gryffindors made their way to the barrier; Harry and Ron pushed through first and the girls trailed several seconds behind them. On the other side, Phoenix could see Ron’s mother and older sister waiting for him. 

“Harry’s got a girlfriend,” she taunted as Ginny fauned over the Boy-Who-Lived. 

“Do not,” he scoffed. 

Not far from them, Harry’s Muggle family stood impatiently, sneering at everyone who looked like they could possibly have a single drop of magical blood in their veins. He left them confidently, grinning ear to ear with the knowledge that his aunt and uncle had no idea that underage wizards weren’t allowed to use magic outside of school. 

Phoenix and Hermione were the last to leave.

“Do you see your parents?” the former asked, skimming the crowd. “Mine usually wait by the entrance. I’m not sure if Marinia and Jasper have gone through yet.”

“Yeah, they’re right there.”

Two eager-looking Muggles smiled when they saw Hermione and began to wave excitedly. On top of her cart, Hemera began to hoot and bang against the sides of her cage.

“I think that’s her way of saying good-bye,” Phoenix mumbled, blushing. She turned to Hemera and whispered, “Please, don’t draw attention. Muggles aren’t used to owls in the daytime.”

Hermione wrapped her arms around the shorter girl. Hemera was suddenly quiet.

“Keep in touch.” 

“I will,” Phoenix smiled. She watched as Hermione made her way to her parents, then turned and gave a quick wave good-bye, leaving Phoenix strangely still in the center of a crowd, face pink and heart thumping madly. “I  _ definitely _ will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quotes from the book: 
> 
> “There is no good and evil, there is only power, and those too weak to seek it.” page 291.  
> “First...to Mr. Ronald Weasley; for the best-played game of chess Hogwarts has seen in years, I award Gryffindor House twenty points...Second—to Miss Hermione Granger...For the use of cool logic in the face of fire, I award Gryffindor House twenty points...Third—to Mr. Harry Potter; for pure nerve and outstanding courage, I award Gryffindor House twenty-five points.” pages 203 and 204.


End file.
